


The Captain and his Hawke

by HanaSheralHaminail



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Fantasy, Ladyhawke - Freeform, Ladyhawke AU, M/M, Spock is an elf, and it's awesome, but also lots of sweet love too, but vulcans are... elves, chekov's inner dialogue is a thing, definitely lots of it, jim is the dashing captain of the guard for whom spock falls, k/s - Freeform, spirk, still a vulcan, this is set in medieval france
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanaSheralHaminail/pseuds/HanaSheralHaminail
Summary: Two cursed lovers, never and always touching and touched, as long as the sun rises and sets, as long as there is day and night and for as long as they both shall live.An irreverent young thief, constanly running for his life, the one and only who knows his way inside the holy Cathedral of Aquila.A mysterious Captain, travelling only by daylight with a black hawk upon his shoulder, intent on exacting a terrible vengeance.An ethereal, sorrowful Vulcan whose sun is the moon and who can tame wolves, gliding through the night forest like a ghost.The Bishop who once desired him, and who now seeks to destroy him.A bond that is slowly falling apart...





	The Captain and his Hawke

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】The Captain and his Hawke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15749979) by [TSPRING](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TSPRING/pseuds/TSPRING)



> Hello, everyone! At last, this is the infamous Ladyhawke AU! The original script is (mostly) unchanged, but I did add some soft Spirky flashbacks for everyone's enjoyment! It's 2.55 a.m. and I spent the whole day editing... Please have fun with this!
> 
> And you know how we always say that Vulcans are space elves? There.

**_The Captain and his Hawk_ **

 

 

“Impossible...”

A breath of a word, huffed out in a voice made rough by effort and by lack of air. A dim light shone even there, in the sewers of the lowest prison in the great city of Aquila, and seemed to flicker as the earth and mud trembled.

The voice returned. “Nothing is impossible...” It was said in the petulant tones of a young boy who had clearly made a habit out of monologuing constantly to himself.

“Come on, Mouse... dig!” he gasped, and the very tips of small, nimble fingers broke through the yielding clay. “Dig, Mouse... Dig, Mouse...”

The worst had passed, he thought, he had somehow managed to make it this far down the drains and into that claustrophobic tunnel – perhaps he might escape his execution. People were being hanged right at that very moment, the Mouse could hear the bells of the cathedral ringing festively.

“It’s not unlike escaping mother’s womb,” he told himself, and now both hands were in the open air. “God, what a memory!”

As the mud gave under his repeated, quite frantic assaults, the little criminal kept speaking, for reassurance maybe, or because he was lonely, and young, and trying to cheat death. “Lord, I’ll never pick another pocket as long as I live, I swear.”

The boy fell down deep into the disgusting, slimy waters beneath, but he was quick to find purchase on the slippery walls, and heaved himself out of the canal, clinging to the sour-smelling rock for dear life.

“But here’s the problem – if you won’t let me live, how can I prove my good faith to you?” he said reasonably, ignoring the chattering of his teeth as he moved forward with some difficulty. Then he froze. His locks had flattened around his head, heavy with wet dirt, and the rivulets of dark liquid that trailed over his face highlighted the terror in his expression.

His clear eyes widened.

“If you’ve heard me, this ledge will remain steady as a rock, and that thing coming at me won’t be what I think it is!” he anxiously exclaimed, hoping…

“If it is, there’ll be no hard feelings, of course... but I’ll be very disappointed.”

But someone must have heard him, or it truly was his lucky day, for indeed there was no wild, aquatic beast ready to take him from the world; only a piece of sodden wood, dragged forth by the current. “I don’t believe it...” the Mouse hissed in pure relief. “I believe it!” It was louder now, joyful. He started making his way towards the surface, led by the rays of sun streaming in from a grating. “I’m coming.”

For a while, nothing but his heavy breathing could be heard over the distant sound of the mass and the choir. Panting and spluttering, he fit a finger inside the grill so he could lift it. “It’s Pavel, Lord,” he whispered. “Pavel.”

He froze when someone stepped closer to where he hid.

“You won’t regret this, Lord. I’m a wonderful person.”

Just then, the sole of the man’s shoe went to rest heavy upon his digits, and Pavel instinctually let go of the grating. He fell back into the waters.

“Dammit,” he muttered. Now he’d have to start the climb again. But he was nothing if not resolute, and looking up at his freedom he returned to his escape.

* * *

The colonnade outside the cathedral of Aquila was silent and gloomy from the grey clouds that had gathered above. His Grace the Bishop stood immobile under the dark shadow cast by the portico, and his blue eyes were glazed, staring far off into nothingness as if lost in thought. He did not even flinch when a knight in full armour crossed the empty courtyard in a rush, and went to kneel before him.

“There’s disturbing news, Your Grace,” the Captain of the Guard said, straightening his back but keeping his head bowed. “One of the prisoners has escaped.”

At that, the Bishop turned his head swiftly, laying a cold gaze upon his subject. “No one ever escapes the dungeons of Aquila, Finney,” he snapped, lined face pale in sudden anger, “The people of the city accept that as a historical fact.”

Benjamin Finney swallowed hard in fear of repercussion. “The responsibility is mine.”

“Yes.”

“It would be a miracle... if he manages to get through the sewage system,” the knight added.

The Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “I believe in miracles, Finney,” he drawled, indifferent to the man’s evident distress. “It’s part of my job.”

“At any rate, Your Grace, ‘tis only one insignificant petty thief,” the Captain explained hurriedly.

“Great storms announce themselves with a simple breeze, Captain,” was the stern answer he got, “And a single rebel spark can ignite the fires of rebellion.”

Finney took a steadying breath, and kneeled again. “If he’s out there, Your Grace, I shall find him.”

“Yes.”

* * *

The Captain’s voice rang in the still air as he addressed his knights. The white horse he rode was restless, and its hooves clacked loudly against the pavement, sounding a strange, moody rhythm to his severe speech.

“Take ten men toward Chanee, we ride north to Gabroche!” he said, loud and commanding. “The name of the man who finds this Chekov will be brought to the personal attention of the Bishop!” He paused to let the soldiers absorb the information, and perhaps begin to imagine what riches such an honour would bring. Then he snapped his crop on the horse’s shiny neck and continued: “As will the body of the man who lets him get away.”

“Open the gate!”

They rode on.

* * *

Pavel took out his knife. Chest-deep into the waters of the river, he hid beneath a tiny wooden dock and stretched his hand. “I know I promised, Lord, never again. But I also know, that you know, what a weak-willed person I am,” he said, as he cut the strings that tied a soldier’s leather purse to his belt. He slipped away before he or his friend could notice anything had happened, and in a matter of minutes he was running into the woods.

“Come on, Mouse, keep going,” he mumbled, teeth chattering from the cold wind that whipped his drenched clothes. Hugging himself for warmth, the boy made himself walk into the tall grass that wrapped around his ankles. “Not much further. About two miles, that’s all.”

Minutes went by and merged into hours, and the Mouse felt his eyelids become heavy with fatigue as he trudged by the limits of the forest, following the line of thin, blackened trees to a path that, he hoped, led away from Aquila. Hunger gnawed at his stomach.

“A nice hot piece of cabbage, like my dear old mother used to make,” he remembered aloud. He could almost taste it in his mouth, scalding his throat – he had always been poor, all his life; he’d been raised by a bunch of loving prostitutes, and even so miserable a thing as a cabbage was a delicacy at those times. When he was young. Younger.

A piercing howl shook him from his wishful thinking, and his eyes went wide as saucers. Fear gave new spring to his step, and he hurried away. “Wolf! Wolf,” he gasped, unable to believe that he had come this far only to end up dead under a wild animal’s claws.

“Please, no wolf,” he begged.

When he decided the danger had passed – because he could no longer hear anything but the discreet chattering of birds and squirrels – he returned to his culinary musings. “Extract of lamb…” Yes, that would be good. Just what he needed to gain his strength back. If he could make it out of the Bishop’s land…

But all that green looked the same to him – had he just seen that weird pine with the broken branch? Or maybe it was just similar… “Where the hell am I?” he wailed.

_Don’t give up, Mouse._

“Hot lamb, with sauce on it. Maybe some of that green stuff, that Bertram used to put on.”

He ran into a shag with children playing in the dirt. Thanking the Lord above, he stole a pair of shoes and clean clothes. He was freezing, after all. With a bit of luck, he would find an inn sooner or later.

* * *

“A drink of your most expensive!” Pavel ordered cheerfully, leaning against the counter.

Warm light filtered through the vineyard spreading above him, and it painted bright shapes on the many busy tables behind him. All in all, not a bad place to celebrate his newly-reconquered freedom.

The innkeeper did not seem to share his optimistic view of the current situation. Scratching his stubble, he sent him an unimpressed look: “Yeah, yeah, show me your money.”     

Smirking proudly, the Mouse cupped the stolen satchel in his palm and let the coins clink a few times. “Copper, my friend.”

Turning towards the bystanders in a sudden bout of inspiration that would later prove to be most unfortunate, he proclaimed: “And a same for any who joins me in a toast!”

From the tables, a cloaked man twitched a little in his seat. “Let’s hear your toast.”

Wanting to impress and awe his audience, Pavel took to walking slowly around the area. “We drink to a special man, my friends,” he began, measuring his words with gusto, “Someone who has seen the dungeons of Aquila, and lived to tell the tale.”

“Then you drink to me, little man. I’ve seen those dungeons.”

“A blacksmith, perhaps? A carpenter? A stonecutter, even? But a prisoner, from inside Aquila?”

“I didn’t say I was a prisoner.” Finally, the man revealed his face – he was a soldier, the Captain of the Guard to be precise, and as soon as he glanced at his unreadable expression, Pavel knew he was doomed. “If you’d stuck to the woods, you may have stood a chance, Chekov.”

Considering his chances, Pavel started backtracking, never taking his eyes off the threat. “You’re right,” he agreed, rolling the word in his tongue in an attempt at stalling.

Benjamin Finney deigned him of a bored gesture of dismissal. “Get him!”

At once, seven soldiers ambushed him, but he slipped away. The Mouse was fast and sneaky, and he did try his best – the only thing he managed, though, was to delay his capture and give the knights a run for their money. He made them sweat, the way he dashed around, heart in his throat and begging the Providence to _please take care of this too, I promise I’ll become an honest man._

But he was barely more than a child, and they were fully armed men. Eventually, he was caught.

He did put a nasty cut across the Captain’s cheek, even if not on purpose. However, he would really prefer it if posterity believed he’d meant it, for it was pretty cool. Fancy it had to be his last act before he died.

Finney glared at him with disgust in his gaze and not an ounce of respect. “Kill him.”

Pavel squeezed his eyes shut. “May God have mercy on my soul!” he blurted out, waiting for the blow that would end his life.

Except it never came. A yelp was heard from the soldier who held him still, and then the Mouse found himself free, free to turn and see that the man had fallen into a seat and was clutching at his arm, where an arrow had docked.

Chekov whirled around on the heels of his feet. There was a knight standing by the counter. In the fleeting moment he had to examine him, Pavel thought he was somehow different from the rest: there was something in his countenance, in the sharp curve of his mouth and the pride he radiated, that spoke of great dignity, and yet at the same time that wild glint in his hazel eyes gave him the appearance of a caged creature.

“You, out,” he commanded, voice like velvet over steel. The Mouse didn’t need to hear it twice. He was out of the confines of the inn in a blink, holding his saviour’s heavy crossbow in both of his arms.

Now, the smart thing to do was getting the hell away and putting as many miles between himself and that mayhem as his legs could possibly carry him. And Pavel knew it very, very well. However, he was curious. Curious as to why this strange man had rescued him. Curious as to why the soldiers were staring, horror-struck, at him, as if he’d been a ghost. Curious as to why he was still standing there, looking at Finney in a manner that said, quite clearly, that if he could have, he would have killed him then and there.

The Captain of the Guard leered at him. “One of my men told me you returned,” he said, baring his teeth. “I wanted to cut his throat for lying... because I knew you weren’t that _stupid_.”

With a sharp motion, the man drew his sword, ready to fight. An aura of barely-suppressed energy surrounded him.

“Captain Kirk!” a young soldier called, stepping forth in greeting. He was smiling.

_Captain? What does it mean?_ the Mouse wondered. And then he shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of this ridiculous spell that kept him rooted there when he should have been fleeing.

“Francesco,” Kirk answered warmly, fondness in his tone.

Behind them, Finney was seething. “Captain?” he hissed, unknowingly echoing Pavel’s thoughts. In an abrupt motion, he pushed Francesco forward, to die on Kirk’s unsheathed blade. Shock and then sadness played about the knight’s eyes, but were soon replaced by boiling fury. With a snarl, he attacked the Captain of the Guard, and as metal met metal and the soldiers screamed, the spell was finally broken.

Blood rushed inside Chekov’s veins as he got his will back and turned tail to distance himself from what was quickly becoming a brawl. He scurried away, to the stables, where two horses were tied. He approached one carefully – he’d never liked those beasts, they were disquieting, but a thief had to do what a thief had to do to survive. 

“I won’t hurt you, I’m a wonderful person,” he said as he unsuccessfully tried to climb on its back.

He kept one eye fixed on the inn, and a part of him was begrudgingly amazed at this Kirk fellow: not only was he single-handedly duelling six of the Bishop’s soldiers, he was having the better of them. There wasn’t even a scratch on his tanned face – hell, he hadn’t even ripped his clothes.

“After him!”

With a startle, Pavel realised that Kirk – and subsequently the knights – were heading in his direction.

“Nice ponies, sweet ponies, come here…” he crooned, throwing himself at the other horse, which, alas, refused to let him mount it. “Filthy strumpets!” the Mouse spat angrily, taking off in a run.

Behind him, Kirk was on a black stallion, heading for the closed fence…

“No, no!” Pavel ran faster and faster still, but did he really have a chance against that gigantic horse? Of course not. _Thanks, Providence. Out of the pot into the fire_. “No, no, no!”

He squealed when the _Captain_ grabbed him forcefully by the scruff and lifted him bodily over the saddle as if he weighed nothing. Which, well, was probably true, but still. Impressive. They were racing towards the doors, and, God, they were going to crash against them… Oh, yes, they were… And then Finney would have both their heads…

The horse neighed and jumped over the fence as if it had been two feet high, instead of five and a half. Just then, a magnificent hawk with feathers as dark and lustrous as a raven’s landed on Kirk’s proffered arm.

This was shaping up to be the most incredible day of Pavel Chekov’s life.

* * *

A thin, silvery fog was crawling cold over the undergrowth, swallowing down leaves and fallen branches and the invisible, busy life that dwelled into the rich earth. It seemed as though it was from that fog alone that light came – twilight must be approaching, but there was no indication for it other than the fact that the clouds above had become duller.

The black horse kept its steady pacing through the woods, every bit as composed as its owner, but Chekov looked around the area in disquiet; merely a handful of hours had passed since they had left the Bishop’s soldiers behind…

In the distance, a pitiful shag filled most of what had to be the tiniest clearing of the forest. “Must be somebody at home. I see smoke,” the Mouse said, unnecessarily pointing at it. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride on, sir?” he added, when the only response he received – if it could even be considered a response – was a gentle tug given to the reins to adjust their direction. “There’s still plenty of light.”

“Stop your chattering,” the Captain told him, in a tone that indicated he was at least a little entertained by the boy’s fretting, “We’ll spend the night here.”

Maybe it was the intimidating beast they were riding, or the restless gleam that had once again entered Kirk’s eyes, but the two farmers who called that hut home were strongly alarmed by their approach. The man grabbed an axe and heaved it high in front of his face, while his wife stood behind him and glared at them in evident distrust.

Captain Kirk did not seem at all affected by such reaction; perhaps he was used to it. Be it as it may, he addressed the couple with great courtesy, in a manner that was more suited to a diplomat, or a lord – and he spoke as if they’d been his peers, not two low-life, nameless peasants. “Good evening, sir, my lady,” he greeted with the ghost of a charming smile, “My comrade-in-arms and I need lodging for the night.”

The man shook his head furiously, and the axe in his hands trembled slightly. “No,” he refused in a breathless mutter, “No place for you here.”

Kirk cocked his head to the side, golden locks falling across his forehead. “We’ll pay for it, of course,” he insisted.

Pavel simply could not help himself from showing-off the riches he had acquired earlier – was it only that morning? It felt like ages had passed since he’d been trapped in the dungeons of Aquila. He waved his purse at the farmers and drawled, producing a shit-eating grin: “We are not above compassion to those in misery.”

He thought he might have heard the Captain chuckle softly at that, but he could have just as easily imagined it.

As his wife nodded enthusiastically and patted his shoulder, the man finally lowered the axe. “You may sleep down there, in a barn,” he conceded.

“Thank you,” Kirk graciously said.

* * *

The barn was thankfully bigger than it looked from the outside; despite his young age, Pavel had always been used to living on his own, and sharing a cramped space with another person was never preferable. He’d have to watch his back constantly, which meant he’d never get any rest. Though, now that he thought about it, this Captain Kirk didn’t seem the kind to stab someone in the back; more like one who would send a written warning before attacking you.

But then again, looks deceive.

“Sir? Sir, are you there?” he called, standing on tiptoes so he could peer over the high wooden plank that divided the barn in two. “If there’s nothing else I can do, I think I’ll turn in.”

Kirk’s hazel eyes barely paused on him as he fixed a distracted gaze on the rapidly-darkening sky. “You can take care of my horse,” he suggested.

Resigned and hearing the order very well under all that civility, the Mouse simply huffed out a begrudging: “All right.”

Before he could make his way unwillingly to the beast, the Captain laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him: “And sleep with one eye open,” he admonished, “And don’t disturb me – I’m liable to take your head off before I know it’s you.”

Pavel bit down the snarky remark he wanted to give him at this – something along the lines of _why are you having me tag along if you don’t want to be disturbed_ – and settled for another nod. “All right.”

He fit his hand around the reins and tugged. “Come on, old girl,” he told the horse. It refused to budge. “Come on,” the Mouse cajoled, trying not to let his impatience filter through his voice. Kirk was watching him in evident amusement.

“Stubborn little lady!” Pavel pulled again, and again it was to no use: he could have been trying to convince a rock to move for all the good it was doing him. “What’s her name?”

The Captain smirked and his eyes twinkled. “ _His_ name is Goliath.”

“ _His_ name? Pretty name.” Chekov gave a clumsy pat to the stallion’s sturdy neck.

Kirk reached out and brushed his hand affectionately over Goliath’s long nose. “Go with him, boy, he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he murmured.

He withdrew, returning his attention to the majestic hawk perched nearby; one gesture from him and the bird flapped its wings and came to rest on his left arm. Then it pecked him gently under his chin.

The Captain stayed silent as Pavel finally managed to lead Goliath away, and a small smile found its way across his face when he heard the boy talk to the horse: “Goliath, before we get to know each other better...” he was saying lively, and with inordinate seriousness, “I feel I should tell you a story about a tiny little man named David.”

Kirk lowered his gaze and traced a finger down the hawk’s tiny head. As the sun went down, he held the bird close and sighed.

“One day,” he whispered. He shut his eyes. The hawk let out a prolonged cry.

* * *

“ _Comrade-in-arms_ ! _Slave_ is more like it. See to the fire, feed the animals, gather the wood...” As he stomped irritably into the forest, the Mouse complained loudly to himself. Crickets chirruped rather gloomily in the background, and somewhere something was moving, but he paid no mind to such noises, too caught-up in his own righteous outrage.

“Look at me, Lord!” he snarled, picking up a random branch without much caring whether it was dry or not. “I was better off at the dungeons of Aquila! My cellmate was insane, and a murderer… but he _respected_ me!”

A howl screamed nearby, and he paused for a moment. Lowering his voice, he went on in an angry mutter: “He’s a strange one, Kirk. Why did he save my life? He wants something from me. I can see it in his eyes.”

He looked down at the few gnarled sticks he had collected, and he let them fall and scatter into the frozen grass in defiance. “Well, whatever it is, I’m not going to do it!” he declared, “I’m still a young man, you know! I’ve got _prospects_!”

The Mouse fit his hands inside his pockets and changed direction, heading away from the shag; even the idea of a night spent wandering in the woods didn’t deter him. “I’m off to find my golden future, Captain, so goodbye and good...”

He stopped abruptly. The distant rustle had become far less distant, and was starting to sound like it was inching towards him.

“Hello?” Pavel called in fright. Gathering his wits about him, the boy kept talking, hoping to discourage whoever it was from attacking. “Who do you think is out there?” he said, pretending he was part of a group; the trees were pretty thick where he stood, and hopefully he couldn’t be seen…

“You better draw your sword, Pierre. Ah, Louis, you brought your crossbow!” Taking care to make a great deal of noise, he started walking slowly.

“We’ll all go back to the barn now, all right?”

“All right.”

“All right.”

A hiss came from somewhere near – too near for Pavel’s taste. Instinct kicked in, and he broke into a run, intent only in putting as much distance between himself and the threat as he possibly could.     

“Show no mercy, Pierre! Take no prisoners! I’m going to get some help!”

The biting night air filled his lungs and his legs ached, but God, he _had_ to make it… Was he being followed? Was he being chased? Was he about to get murdered? Had Finney finally found them?

He got back to the hut, dizzied and alarmed, and he stumbled towards the barn. He was gasping loudly, and the ringing of his heart thumping in his ears was nearly all he could think of, but then a howl tore the sky apart, and a growl, so dark, so dangerous…

The Mouse felt terror like a kick in the stomach when he turned automatically to the source of so hellish a sound and saw the largest wolf to ever exist – a wild, riotous thing, with fur like molten gold and yellow eyes…

And it was only then that he noticed that his host had made his way behind him in a clear attempt at attacking him – God, he shouldn’t have waved that money, stupid _Mouse_ …

Caught between a rock and a hard place, unable of thinking his way out of this one, he froze… But the wolf jumped soundlessly and flattened the man on the ground with a sickening snarl, and let the boy be.

Unable to believe his good fortune, Pavel dashed away and into the barn, knocking furiously at the divider. “Captain, sir, Captain!” he cried, wondering why the hell no reply came, “Wolf! Wolf, wolf, Sir!”

He could have been alone for all it was worth. Not even the hawk screeched – from Kirk’s side of the shed there was only silence.

Chekov tried again: “Sir! Wolf, wolf!”

Giving up, he reached for the Captain’s crossbow, fit it against a girder and pulled out an arrow. As he did his best to stretch the heavy string so he could place the dart, fingers fumbling and sweaty, he kept his eyes glued to the figure of the slaughtered farmer.

Then there was a touch, a light, barely-there touch on his upper arm, and the gentle whisper of silk flowing over wood that prompted him to turn around. He fell quiet, star-struck.

A _Vulcan_ stood inches from him.

A real Vulcan.

He was… the most alluring creature the Mouse had ever seen. Dressed in simple yet refined robes where words of a long-lost language were embroidered, with piercing eyes and pointed ears and lips tinted green from blood that was _not human_. His raven hair was messy and looked like it had been cut with a knife. And on his wrists, two leather strings were tied, loose but not enough that they could fall.

As much as he wanted to refuse the sight of this delicate being that seemed to have escaped from the ancient legends of Bretagne, Pavel had to concede that this Vulcan was most certainly real. A strange, unfamiliar scent surrounded him, and his cool breath fanned over the boy’s face for a moment before he stepped back.

In equal parts enchanted and scared out of his mind, Chekov watched as the creature raised one finger to his mouth and murmured: “Hush.”

Then he slowly slipped away, moving as if he’d been gliding on ice, no sound coming from him. He could have very well been a spirit. He was ethereal.

“Don’t go out there, don’t go out there!” the Mouse blurted out in alarm as soon as the Vulcan walked into the clearing. “There’s a wolf, a big wolf, the biggest wolf you’ve ever seen, and a dead man!”

The warning should have been enough to bring every sane man to a pause at least, but the creature merely cocked his head to the side and laid a soulful gaze upon him; it was full of arcane secrets, secrets that would give meaning to this crazy, crazy night, secrets that Pavel did not, for the life of him, want to discover.

“I know,” the Vulcan simply said.

“Sir, please!” Chekov followed him and stood by the door, unwilling to go further to chase what was probably a ghost or a hallucination. “Please!”

But the creature ignored him, and left for the woods. His skin seemed to glow all on its own, and the fog curled around his ankles, rising over his dark cloak.

Pavel swallowed hard and flopped back against the unstable wall. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” he hopefully told himself, “But my eyes are open, which means, maybe I’m awake... dreaming I’m asleep. Or, or more likely...” He frowned, thinking it through – anything to distract him from the frightening things he’d just witnessed. “...Maybe I’m asleep, dreaming I’m awake... wondering if I’m dreaming.”

He jumped when the Vulcan spoke again.

“You _are_ dreaming.”

The golden wolf had returned, and it was now pressing its head against the Vulcan’s thin waist; one refined hand was buried into soft-looking fur. After deigning him of another curious glance, the mystical being turned his back on him and strode away, shadowed by the savage animal he had tamed.

“I’ve not seen what I’ve just seen,” the Mouse gasped, and it was almost a prayer. “I do not believe what I believe, Lord,” he firmly added, staring at the dark, ruined wood of the ceiling, “If these are magical or unexplainable matters, then I beg you not to make me a part of them.”

Throughout the night, the wolf cried.

* * *

Rainclouds hung low above the treetops, and as they rode toward midday the Mouse was quiet, too troubled by the memory of the vision he’d had just hours before to notice that the Captain appeared to be just as sombre as he was. Eventually, he pulled on the horse’s reins and hopped down, indicating that Pavel should do the same. “We’ll stop now,” he told him, “Not a great day for traveling.”

After some coaxing and cajoling on the boy’s part to get Goliath to settle by a tree, they made camp, and Kirk sat with his legs crossed and his hawk perched elegantly upon his knee. From time to time, he stroked its head.

“I can do with a rest myself, after last night’s goings on!” Chekov sighed, plopping down on the grass in a far less dignified way. “The wolf would have killed me, it was horrible,” he said, continuing the brief conversation they’d had in the morning. “But he tore the farmer’s throat out, and left me alone.”

Kirk looked away, and his hand stilled on the bird’s feathers.

Pavel rubbed at his arms to keep warm and went on, oblivious to his companion’s displeasure. “And there was more,” he slowly said, “There was a _Vulcan_...”

At that, the Captain straightened his back and turned fully towards the boy. His hazel eyes filled with expectation and pain, but again the Mouse did not notice.

“A Vulcan, like in the legends of up North.” He frowned, trying to find words that could describe so elusive a vision. “Skin like fine porcelain, with deep brown eyes... almost like a bird’s. And his voice... the dulcet tones of an angel.”

Kirk leaned forward, and the hawk moved to settle on his shoulder. “He spoke?” the Captain eagerly exclaimed, “What did he say?”

Surprised by such interest, Pavel hastened to reply: “I asked him if I was dreaming, and he said I was.” There was an undefinable expression painted on the other’s face; it brought a shiver down Chekov’s spine and made him feel the need to defend himself: “I’m not insane, you must believe me when I tell you these things!”

“No, I believe you. I believe in dreams.” The Captain’s voice was soft, and his eyes shone with grief.

“I see,” the Mouse muttered, unsettled.

“This Vulcan…” Kirk murmured after a beat of silence, “Did he perhaps have a name?”

“Not that he mentioned, why?”

The Captain smiled faintly, and his gaze was distant, lost somewhere between reality and fantasy. “Well, he may wander into my dreams,” he mused, “Wouldn’t it be nice... if I could call him by name and pretend we’ve met before?”

Again, he brought a hand up to gently caress the hawk’s feathers. It squeaked lightly. “I’ve waited a long time for such a person.”

He shook his head forcefully, then, and blinked, as if he’d just realised he’d been speaking aloud. His expression hardened. “Sleep,” he said briskly, “The bird will warn us if anyone comes.”

_I got to be out of my mind_ , the Mouse thought before closing his eyes, _Out of my mind_.

* * *

Deep into the forest of Broceliande, the light is almost always green, and the sky is invisible, save for the occasional shred of blue that peeks out from the intricate ceiling of interwoven branches. Deep into the forest of Broceliande, the water runs crystal-like in lively rivulets that somehow find their way across the labyrinth of roots and fallen leaves that is the ground. Deep into the forest of Broceliande, the wild animals are said to be sentient, and fearless of man.

Deep into the forest of Broceliande is where the last Vulcan Clan dwells. Hidden from the world, as distant from humans as possible – so distant in fact that these people have become nothing more than a legend, a fairy-tale whispered by a mother to her children, to warn them from wandering too far into the woods.

Deep into the forest of Broceliande is where Captain Kirk has been sent, along with his most trusted soldiers – he has chosen the most compassionate, those who raise their swords only when absolutely necessary and only to protect: the caretakers, the generous, the kind. The Bishop needn’t know of the reasons behind his decision, and he doesn’t care enough to ask.

What matters to him is that he learns the secrets of these pagans – these devils, as he called them – and lures them into a treaty that will ultimately lead to their extinction.

As he steps silently across the lush emerald grass, following a trail that has been opened for him and for him alone, Jim reflects upon his dreadful mission, on the task that has befallen him – to be a traitor, a murderer of friends and allies. To be the one who will extinguish the last embers of magic of their land…

Unthinkable.

He would never.

How could he?

He closes his eyes for a moment, savouring the unique silence that surrounds him; it’s different from anything he has ever experienced: a quiet made of countless aerial sounds that wrap around him like a strangely comforting blanket.

Cold water laps at the tips of his boots and he stops abruptly, shaken out of his reverie, finding his path blocked by the long turquoise stretch of a lake. His own eyes stare back at him from the shimmering surface.

“You are Captain Kirk?”

Jim startles and whirls around to fix a confused stare on the infant who is standing by his side. She is extremely young, her head of loose raven curls doesn’t even reach his waist, and she wears a placid expression that strongly contrasts with her childish features. She is not human.

Kirk is quick to recover from his initial shock. “Yes, milady, I’m Captain Kirk,” he answers genially, offering her a bright smile.

“I am Saavik, of the House of T’Rel,” she calmly says. “If you would follow, I am to lead you to meet my cousin, T’Pring of the House of Surak.”

“Is she your leader?” the Captain asks.

“She is our leader-to-be. You must meet her first if you wish to speak to T’Pau.”

Jim nods in understanding. “Thank you for showing me the way.”

“They say you are pure of heart. That you can be trusted,” Saavik tells him, and her black eyes seem to linger on his face a moment too long before she turns her back on him and walks into the lake.

“I would not break your trust,” Kirk vows. He has been warned times and times again that he must be careful around the people of the forest, lest they steal his will and his soul and his future; but it is too late: already he is charmed, lost.

“Come,” the infant calls.

The Captain takes one step forward only to stop abruptly in raptured disbelief, for the water doesn’t yield beneath his weight as it should, and it’s like he’s standing on a mirror. “How…” he breathes, watching in utter fascination as his reflection trembles and follows him over the surface.

Saavik is waiting patiently for him to catch up with her. “Do not fear. The lake will let you through because it is our wish.”

Jim walks on, reassured, and his heart fills with wonder and elation and gratitude that he was fortunate enough to be the one chosen to make this journey. The Bishop might have wanted to rid himself of the most righteous of his men, but in his supreme ignorance he had not even thought to consider the fact that this mission might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

As his little guide walks him across the lake, Kirk slowly realises that his surroundings are changing: where there was once an intricate pattern of trunks and leaves, rise now elegant houses, thin, well-lit paths, and people… many more than what he’d expected to find.

The child doesn’t leave him time to stop and truly absorb the beauty of this forgotten world he was plunged in. He’s forced to rush behind her as she hurries across what he belatedly understands to be a city, or as close to a city as Vulcans will ever get. The forest is at its thickest, and yet for some unknown reason it is bathed in light, and warmth spreads through the human’s veins. The Captain beams unabashedly. He looks forward to when he’ll tell his friends all about this journey – perhaps he will even convince his hosts to invite them as well.

Their designed destination is a meadow: a lovely pool of fresh green grass lined by ancient trees that stand as tall as mountains, with branches so wide they have been turned into streets, and a crown of foliage that extends over the horizon. Beneath their emerald shadows, a small party of Vulcans is waiting patiently for the two to arrive. Music fills the air – a mystifying, otherworldly music.

Saavik has Kirk stop in the middle of the small clearing, then she runs away to sit into the circle of musicians. The Captain bows deeply, then sinks down on one knee. “Greetings,” he says, “I am James Kirk of Aquila. I come in peace.” Deep into his soul, he knows this to be true.

A woman stands, walks towards him. She is dressed in the colours of the autumn leaves, her hair is loose about her shoulders and around her head a crown of interlaced twigs rests, the red berries contrasting with her fine complexion. She looks like a spirit. “I am T’Pring,” she tells him. Her voice is liquid, flowing like a spring. “Welcome to our land, foreigner.”

“I thank you for the honour you have granted me.” He straightens his back and smiles gently. “Your forest is magnificent.”

T’Pring nods slowly, and raises her hand, parting her fingers in a way he does not fully understand; nonetheless, he mimics the gesture, ignoring the ache in his tendons that comes from such an unfamiliar arrangement.

“Join us,” she invites, “And listen to my cousin play.”

Kirk settles silently into the sweet-smelling grass, and watches, enraptured. Everything is strange, and new, even the musical instruments; the sounds embracing him are in equal parts soothing and electrifying, a heady combination that brings moisture to his eyes. This wordless song is so ripe with powerful emotion that he finds himself wondering if he will be able to contain it all, or if it will break him.

Eventually, it draws to an end.

One of the musicians stands in a flurry of dark robes, and with soundless steps he comes before the human, slips elegantly into a kneeling position. He joins his hands into his lap, and his gentle eyes search for the Captain’s, holding his gaze. His hair falls long and silken over his chest, the very tips of his ears barely escaping the tangle of black locks, his thick eyelashes cast pale shadows over his high cheekbones, and his expression, though calm and collected, radiates kindness.

“I am Spock,” he murmurs, showing him the ghost of a smile. “I shall teach you about our language and our customs.”

Jim blinks, and for a moment he is utterly uncapable of formulating an answer. Such lovely, magical creature he’s never dared wish he could _see_ , even in dreams, let alone speak to. “I… would like that very much,” he tells him in earnest. “Thank you.”

Spock nods, looking pleased, and returns to his playing. Throughout the afternoon, the Captain watches him.

* * *

Men and women were dancing gracefully under the warm light of the morning sun; the courtyard was ripe with the singing voices of wild birds and the cadenced music of the string instruments the Bishop seemed to prefer; everything was quiet as he stared covetously at the half-naked, sinuous bodies of the dancers.

Ben Finney would have rather died than interrupt such a moment and have to face the Bishop’s wrath, but circumstances demanded he did. He strode quickly across the area, taking care to keep a generous distance between himself and the clergyman.

The high minister turned in a sharp, snake-like motion, and raised his cold voice above the soft lullaby in the background: “Have you found the criminal, Chekov?”

Swallowing hard, the Captain of the guard bowed his head. “He’s not in my custody at this time.”

“Then why do you invade my garden, unwashed, unshaved?” The Bishop’s eyes had turned, if possible, harder than before, and it looked as if he had a sour taste in his mouth. “Do you think to find him here?”

“James Kirk has returned.”

Anger made the priest’s face white. It was as if a spirit had suddenly manifested in front of him, and for a moment he seemed to shiver, as if about to crumble. “Walk with me,” he finally said, not even waiting for Finney to follow before he strode away beneath the colonnade. One guard shadowed his every step, but they both ignored him.

“The criminal, Chekov, travels with him,” the Captain added, “My men are combing the woods.”

Apparently, though, the Bishop had lost all interest in the Mouse. An almost feverish light shone in his blue irises, giving him the look of a man possessed. “And the hawk?” he asked fervently.

“Your Grace?” Finney was confused.

“There must be a hawk,” the priest insisted, speaking in a rushed tone, “A spirited hawk. This one is not to be harmed, understood? You see, the day he dies, a new Captain of the Guard will preside at your execution.”

A minute of silence followed that threat. Men walked past them in small groups, but all kept their quiet and didn’t even glance in their direction. Then the Bishop moved again, farther away from the crowd he had gathered and now forgotten.

“We live in difficult times, Finney,” he told him, “This famine has prevented people from paying their proper tribute to the Church.” The careless, almost inhuman quality of his voice made the Captain cringe very secretly. “I raise their taxes, only to be told there’s nothing left for me to tax. Imagine!”

He clearly did not expect the soldier to answer, for he went on and changed the subject. He had stopped again, and turned to face Finney; uncapable of meeting his frightening gaze, the man was keeping his eyes fixed on the golden hems of his tunic. “But last night, the Lord Almighty visited me in my sleep. He told me...”

Here the Bishop paused, for what reason the Captain could not fathom. “...That Satan’s messenger is traveling amongst us. And his name... is James Tiberius Kirk.”

Finney nodded, placed a hand on his sword in understanding.

“Go,” the priest commanded, offering him his ring to kiss. “To break faith with me is to break faith with Him.” He looked up for the fraction of a second, then the Captain left him.

Thinking fast, the Bishop turned around and looked down at the people still watching the dancers in his courtyard, searching for his attendant. He clapped his hands twice to get his immediate attention. “Get me Cezar!”

“Yes, Your Grace.” As the man skittered away and disappeared behind one of the many doors, the High priest returned his gaze to the spotless sky, as if expecting a black hawk to fly across it.

_Ridiculous._

* * *

The Mouse whistled as he cut wood for the fire. In both hands he held – not without effort – Kirk’s refined sword; it was heavy, and quite difficult to handle, but it was also the sharpest tool he’d ever seen.

As he heaved it above his head again, a strong hold came around his wrist, stopping him entirely, and the sword was taken from his loosened grip. He swept around, ready to pitch a fight, but found that it was the Captain who had reclaimed his blade.

His hazel eyes were dangerously bright, but Pavel knew by now that he would not be harmed. Scolded, maybe, but never harmed. “This sword has been in my family for five generations,” James told him lightly. “It has never known defeat, _until now_.”

He gestured for the boy to come closer so he could examine the sword, then tapped a finger against one of the precious stones embedded in the hilt. “This jewel represents my family name.” He flipped the weapon around. The Mouse watched in silence. “This one is our alliance with the Holy Church in Rome. This one was my father’s... from the Crusades. And this...”

This time, the Captain pointed at an empty hollow, and at once Chekov stepped back, raised his hands to show open palms and blurted out: “Sir, you don’t think that I took that one...”

Kirk ignored him. “This is mine to fill,” he said, “Each generation is called upon to follow its quest.”

Intrigued, Pavel relaxed and asked: “And what is your quest?”

“I must kill a man,” the Captain answered with dead certainty. He went to sit on a boulder and planted the sword firmly in the ground.

“Tell me, does this walking corpse have a name?”

A strange look crossed Jim’s face then, and he raised both eyebrows at him. “His Grace... the Bishop of Aquila.”

The Mouse paled and instinctually stepped back. “The Bishop... I see.” It was obvious he had misjudged this man – he was batshit crazy to say the least. “Well, then you have much to do.” He kept walking slowly backwards. “And I’ve already been enough of a burden to you. I do hope our paths cross again someday.”

_Please don’t kill me,_ he thought _, please, God, let me leave._

Kirk didn’t move. “I need you to guide me into the city,” he told him serenely.

At that, Pavel scoffed openly. “Not for the life of my mother!” he cried, “Even if I knew who she was.”

“You’re the only one who has ever escaped from there,” the Captain insisted, absent-mindedly playing with the leather jesses of his hawk.

“It was chance, pure chance, a _miracle_!” The Mouse groaned, trying to make him understand. His arms flailed wildly for emphasis. “I fell down a hole and followed my nose.”

James shook his head, as calm and collected as ever. “I have waited almost two years for a sign from God,” he said, “So when I heard the warning bells of Aquila... I knew the moment of my destiny had come.” A dark shadow passed over his face, but it was gone in a blink, and he smiled sardonically. “You will be my guiding angel.”

“Me?!” Chekov repeated, aghast. He mastered his courage and stepped back again, this time more forcefully. “Sir, the truth is, I talk to God all the time, and no offense, but he never mentioned you.”

“No?” Kirk murmured. He was clearly amused, and this only served to make the Mouse angrier at him.

“There are strange forces at work in your life. Magical ones that surround you,” he said, thinking of the previous night and the golden wolf and the lovely Vulcan that accompanied it. “I don’t understand them, but they _frighten_ me.” He sighed deeply. “You have given me my life. The truth is, I can never repay you. I have no honour, and never will have.”

As the Captain narrowed his eyes at him, the boy pursed his lips and shrugged in his thin camisole that barely hid his lanky frame. “I don’t think that you’d kill me for being what I am. But, better that than to return to Aquila.”

He turned his back to the soldier. A sharp, whooshing sound and then the sword was planted in the rough bark of a tree, mere inches from Pavel’s head. The thief jumped in fear and stared at the ringing blade, then met Kirk’s steely gaze.

“I’ll gather some wood for the fire,” he shakenly said.

The hawk screeched as it flew above their heads. It circled twice before it drifted closer, dropping a dead rabbit in the Captain’s lap. Then it went to settle on his elbow, and as he looked at the bird, James’s whole expression seemed to soften. He smiled.

Chekov averted his eyes.

* * *

Sunlight streams above them, warm and rich, and Spock feels a surge of pride at showing the Captain the beauties of his homeland: the way the very air seems to tingle with magic, and shines green and golden, the lovely scent of the wind that plays around the trees, the powerful roar of the waterfall in the distance. He can see the human is amazed – they display their emotions so clearly on their faces, a habit which he has always resented… until now.

Somehow, this James is different from those of his people he has known: kinder, maybe. Honest. Enthusiast. Unfiltered. He has a softness about him the Vulcan has never expected to find in a soldier of all things. And he burns so brightly with the strength of his feeling.

They walk in companionable silence for a little while longer, then Spock stops in front of the most ancient tree in the forest. “This oak,” he says, reaching out to place his hand on the wrinkled bark, “Was the last living being to ever see Surak. It is believed that before he died, they became one.”

Kirk cocks his head to the side, engrossed. His hazel eyes – so open, so vibrant – reflect his interest as he moves closer, keeping a respectful distance between them, and very slowly touches the oak. “You can do that?” he wonders.

“It has never been achieved since then,” the Vulcan admits, purposefully looking away from him lest he lose his train of thought; it is disturbing how this one human can manage to ruffle him so easily – a gentle smile or an affectionate laugh or the tentative brush of his fingers over his shoulder and Spock is swooning, overcome with the foreign need to please, to make it so the Captain _likes_ him.

He had believed he’d left this want to be accepted in his past long before, and yet…

“Have your people always lived here?” Jim asks, gracing him with the entirety of his considerable attention.

Spock’s hands wander into his long hair, pulling at finely-woven strands; he has to make a conscious effort to leave them be lest he ruin the intricate pattern of braids he has tied them into. “Yes and no,” he answers after a beat, “There has been a time, before the coming of your Jesus of Nazareth, when we lived among you; the Romans, the Greek, the Celts, the Vikings… they all thought us to be Gods.”

Kirk raises both eyebrows at him. His mouth curves into a benevolent smirk, and his eyelashes flutter as he looks at the many stones and berries that adorn the Vulcan’s neck, his ears, his forehead. “Seems fitting,” he murmurs. Spock catches himself staring at the human’s lips and hastily turns away.

“Perhaps,” he says noncommittally. He leads the Captain away from the oak, searching for a place where they can rest; he might teach him a little more of his language if he’s not too busy answering his questions.

Kirk makes the choice for him when he stops to drink from the stream they are following. Spock watches in silence and waits. The afternoon sun washes over the human’s golden hair and dances around his shoulders as he flops down into the grass and smiles invitingly at him.

He stays still.

“You don’t believe in God, do you?” Jim says seriously after a while.

The Vulcan slips into a crouch before him in a whoosh of flowing robes, and returns his gaze gravely. “No, Captain, we do not,” he tells him simply, “We believe that there is light inside all things, a light that connects us to Nature and to each other, and makes us One.”

Jim nods slowly. He seems to have taken this revelation with his usual light-heartedness, and Spock is grateful for it. “So… everything is God for you? Even humans?”

“Most humans have lost their light.” The Vulcan stares at the crooked roots of a willow, and thinks back to the time he has spent in Provence. “They are… empty.”

The Captain looks dismayed, and pouts a little. “Am I?” he asks, only half-teasing.

“No,” Spock answers at once. “No. Your light… It shines like the sun. I can see it.”

The human’s smile turns bashful at that, and the Vulcan feels blood heat his cheeks. He gets up abruptly to hide the blush, and wonders at this power Jim has to make him act so… freely. It is dangerous.

* * *

Spock walked silently through the thick grass, looking for the golden wolf. The night air was chilly, but he had always found at least a little comfort in the rich scents of the forest, though he was so far from home everything was unfamiliar.

The moon shone bright above him, and as he stared at its silvery charms he wondered if he would eventually forget the colour and warmth of the sun. It had been two years since he’d last seen it, after all.

He wrapped himself more closely in the Captain’s black cloak. His eyes fell closed and he breathed into the velvety fabric, seeking some kind of comfort as melancholia threatened to engulf him. _Jim…_

“Sir?”

The sharp, boyish voice cut through his reverie, and the Vulcan flinched infinitesimally at having been caught in such a state.

“My lord, up here!”

He finally located the source of such unbecoming noise. It was the child from the previous night, the one who had tried to fire an arrow at the golden wolf. He was now tied with his back against a tree, and Spock privately thought he deserved the punishment.

“Do you remember me?” the boy asked, struggling against his restraints and huffing when the knot refused to come loose.  

“What are you doing up there?” the Vulcan demanded, moving soundlessly towards him. After all, it had been a long time since he’d enjoyed any kind of distraction…

“What am I doing?” The child did not appear to be in possession of an answer; Spock’s lips curved upwards, and he waited to see what sort of excuse the little human would come up with. “Well, yes, you might ask that. The Bishop’s guards. A dozen of them, we had a terrible fight.”

“Why didn’t they kill you?” the Vulcan inquired, teasing. He could hear Goliath neigh in the distance, and decided he would visit the horse later into the night.

“Why didn’t they?” the boy considered. “It’s a good question, I asked them that myself.”

Minutes passed by and Spock circled around the prisoner, taking in his ragged appearance; his mind had a particular taste which he could not quite define. He was curious as to why Jim would want to travel with such an individual, but not enough that he would ask him the reason. “And…?”

“And?”

“And what did they say?”

Clouds were beginning to gather East, but hopefully it was not going to rain; crickets chirruped wildly, undisturbed by the tiny human and his noise, but the Vulcan could not focus on the simple lives of the forest creatures. He was worried because the wolf had not yet come to him…

“They said that... that they prefer to leave that honour to the Bishop.” The boy paused, clearly expecting to be freed. “They’re coming back.”

“They are, are they?” Spock mused, staring away into the darkness. _Where are you?_

“Please, my lord?” the child pressed. “A giant owl examined me closely not one minute ago. Please? Please?”

The Vulcan sighed softly under his breath, and took pity on him.

“You’re very kind,” the boy said as Spock took his silver knife and used it to cut through the thick ropes holding him still.

The human jumped away as soon as he could, but the Vulcan paid him no mind as he finally heard the sound he’d been waiting for. The rhythmic falling of heavy paws against the undergrowth. “Listen...” he called, wanting to warn the child against attempting to harm his wolf again.

He turned to find that the boy was already running away. He waved a hand from the distance. “Thank you very much, my lord!” he cried, “Tell the Captain he ties a wicked knot!”

Spock raised an eyebrow, wondering whether he should give chase. Deciding it was probably not worth it, he let the kid be, and lowered himself to the ground. The golden wolf stepped out from behind a tree and silently walked to him. One pale hand came forth to press into sleek fur, and the creature’s yellow eyes closed.

“He’s going to kill me,” the Vulcan murmured to himself.

* * *

Morning came, and with it a black hawk. Kirk watched the bird sail across the rising sun, and smiled when it finally perched up on his left arm. He pressed a kiss to its tiny head. “Good morning!” he said, cheerful somehow, even though he himself did not know why – after all, what happiness could there ever be for the cursed such as he was?

The bird hooted lowly.

“Let’s go find Pavel.”

* * *

Spock is beautiful. He is beautiful when he lays in his arms under the sky – spine rising and falling beneath his hands in time with his even breathing, the barest hint of a smile curving his soft lips parted in sleep – and beautiful when he walks into the forest barefoot – green-tinted light washing over him like a halo, his lovely eyes turning darker with the shadows his lashes cast – and beautiful when he plays for him – fingers dancing over his elegant lyre and voice like tender honey as he sings along to the tune – and beautiful when they sit side by side and talk – his carefully controlled motions so different from what the Captain is used to, and yet for this very reason entrancing.

Spock is so honest with him, so blunt. Everything he says or does is in truth; a gently delivered truth, but truth nonetheless. There is a silent pain within him that Jim thinks he has glimpsed occasionally, at times when the Vulcan is absorbed in his own mind, perhaps in his past. It is a pain that lowers a veil over his face and brings melancholy into his voice. The human wishes he could erase it from him.

“Say, my love,” he murmurs one summer evening as he meticulously brushes the Vulcan’s hair. “Will you tell me something?”

“Tell you what, Captain?”

Spock is kneeling before him and his eyes are closed. He’s resting his hands in his lap, the line of his back is relaxed and there is an air of contentment about him that the human can’t help but enjoy. And yet… Even as he threads his fingers through those wild locks he can feel him tense imperceptibly every time his knuckles brush past his shoulder blades or his ribs.

“What troubles you so?”

The Vulcan frowns and carefully extricates himself from his light grip. He turns around to offer him a confused expression, and Jim finds that a smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth: when he began his courtship one month and the odd week before, he received many of those – as if Spock could not quite believe he was wooing him in earnest, or that he could be at all desirable.

But Spock is so, so beautiful, and Kirk wants to understand.

“Troubles me, my _ashayam_?” the Vulcan repeats uncomprehendingly.

The Captain strokes his cheek, smiling again as he leans into the touch. “I believe that there’s something causing you pain. A bad thought, perhaps? I would like to know what it is, so that I might frighten it away.”

Spock presses their fingers together and sighs a little, shifting closer until their knees are brushing and the human is enveloped in his earthy scent. “May I ask something of you, first?”

“Anything,” Kirk vows easily, lifting his hand to kiss the back of it. Their interactions so far have been quite chaste, but it’s impossible not to notice how prettily he blushes, or how he seems to crave this physical contact. Of course, the Captain is aware that Vulcans are in possession of arcane powers: they have made it no secret that they could pry every last one of his thoughts directly from his mind if they so wished, but he suspects there is much more to it than what he has learned.

“Why are you here?” Spock’s question is heavy. “What is your purpose in this land?”

Jim takes hold of his face, cradling it like the most precious thing, and meets his eyes with a grave, piercing stare. “To destroy you,” he whispers simply. The Vulcan doesn’t even bat an eyelid, because evidently he already knows this: he is waiting for him to elaborate, and Kirk does so, glad for the opportunity to explain himself: “The Bishop is wary of your people,” he says, “And he needs _my_ people to have an enemy that isn’t him.”

He frowns, shakes his head a bit, but never breaks eye contact: “He sent me here to gain your trust and then conquer you. I accepted the mission because if I did not, I knew he’d find a man who would actually carry out those orders.”

“And you won’t?” Spock asks softly, infinite tenderness in his voice and eyes shining with pity: “You would turn your back against your own kind if the need arises?”

The Captain gives one curt nod. “I knew this the moment I saw you, and little Saavik, and Lady T’Pring.” He slides his hands down his white robe until he finds the Vulcan’s, then he brings them to his own chest. “I would fight for you, kill the Bishop if he threatened you. I would never let you come to harm.” He brushes his lips to his forehead. “I promise.”

Spock raises an eyebrow at that, finding humour in the idea that he would ever need protection from a human. But when he speaks, he says only: “I thank you… And I am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Without replying, the Vulcan turns again so he can sit with his back against the Captain’s torso, surrounded by him and melting into his welcoming embrace, and rests his head against his shoulder. “My troubles, Jim, are well in the past,” he tells him after a long silence. “I’m afraid there is nothing you can do against them. However… that you offered is enough.”

Jim nuzzles into his sweet-smelling hair, and keeps his quiet, unwilling to force him to reveal his secrets; yet his curiosity and desire to know, to help, to heal, must be very tangible for the telepath, for he arches his neck so he can touch his mouth to his jaw. They kiss.

“I will not speak of this again,” Spock says. “But I understand it is only fair that you should… inquire.” He’s playing with the hems of his wide sleeves, Kirk notices. “As a child, I lived in Provence, with my mother. She was… human.”

If he hears the Captain’s sharp intake of breath, he pretends not to care. Instead he continues in a low monotone, weaving a pretence of indifference in which neither of them believes. “It has not been easy for me to balance these two worlds. The humans have always shunned me, feared me, hated me for my dual nature. And while the Vulcans tolerate me… they do not quite believe me to be _theirs_. According to our laws, I should be the next leader, but they do not want me, and I do not want them. So you see, Jim… I belong nowhere.”

Jim considers this for a minute or two, trying to catch all the little things that have gone unsaid and yet hang in the air, so heavy, so painful. There is a question hidden somewhere in those words, in the confession that has just been made, and the Captain hears it, and answers it with the gentlest kiss he can manage, bestowed upon trembling lips, and a loving murmur of: “If you wish it, you can belong with me.”

And it takes long, longer than it should have, for Spock to find the strength or maybe the courage to reply, to trust him with his trust, but Kirk is patient, and he waits, tracing soothing circles on his arms, just above the wrists.

“ _Yes_.”

* * *

Pavel had run through the night and most part of the day. He had no wish to become involved in whatever crazy feat the Captain attempted – and that Vulcan! That Vulcan had appeared again, for the second time, as ethereal and pale and ghostly as ever, and it was terrifying.

The Mouse felt his heart kick into a frenzied beat as soon as his thoughts returned to the mythological creature; of course, he had been nice enough to set him free… But the sadness he carried was too much for anyone to bear, and Chekov himself could swear tendrils of it were still clinging to his very soul.

He jumped when he was suddenly grabbed by the shoulders. “Well, well,” a voice said above him. As if to delay the inevitable, the boy raised his head very slowly, and met the mocking gaze of a soldier. “Long way from the sewers, little rat. This time, the drinks are on me.”

There was nowhere for him to run, and he gave up fighting soon enough; he was bodily carried in the presence of Captain Finney.

The man looked like he had aged ten years in a day. Grimacing and impatient to be rid of him, he spat: “Where is Kirk?”

Of course he would be looking for Kirk. The Mouse cocked his head to the side and stared at the clear blue sky. “Kirk? Kirk?” he repeated, pretending to need time to remember. After all, he did owe him his life. “Oh, yes, yes, big man, black horse. I saw him riding south, toward Aquila.”

“Then we ride north, sir,” a knight suggested scathingly.

Privately enjoying his little victory, Pavel raised his chin irreverently and said, in a very pedantic tone: “It’s not polite to assume that somebody is a liar when you’ve only just met him.”

“Yet you knew we would,” Finney mused, narrowing his eyes at him. A flash of panic coursed across the boy’s face, and he seemed to notice, because he gave a curt nod. “We ride south. Toward Aquila.”

“I told the truth, Lord!” Chekov screamed in frustration, annoyed that he would be the cause of his saviour’s capture. “How can I learn any moral lessons, when you keep confusing me like this?”

The soldiers bound his hands behind his back, and they began riding.

* * *

Kirk was gazing distractedly at his beloved hawk, not truly paying attention to his surroundings; the even, rhythmical cadence of Goliath’s heavy hooves hitting the ground was lulling in a way, entrancing. A sense of false security fell upon him… His mind was distant, lost in the days of a past he could never return to, no matter how much he wished to.

He had only vengeance now, and the black bird that was the source of his joy and his pain.

For some reason he was more tired than usual, even though he was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten into much trouble the previous night; but weariness had descended on his eyelids, and he wanted very much to sleep, but he couldn’t, not until he found the sneaky little Mouse who could lead him into the city to face the devil.

Suddenly, the hawk screeched out a warning, and in the distance came Pavel’s voice, ringing in alarm.

The Captain ducked just in time to avoid the arrow that flew at him, and he hissed between his teeth as it grazed the top of his head. Jerking his arm violently, he sent the bird flying into the sky, to safety. He must not be hurt.

Pulling on Goliath’s reins, he reversed his course so he was now running at the group of soldiers rather than walking before them; a snarl escaped his throat as he glimpsed Finney among the resulting melee. He was chasing after Chekov. The Captain drew out his crossbow and aimed at him, hitting his left arm – and he missed only because another two soldiers had thrown themselves at him, begging to be killed.

He hated taking lives, he always had, and after the time spent in the Forest of Broceliande he found this instinctual aversion had grown even more. So it was with a frown on his face and a heaviness in his heart that he set about defeating every single one of these men – young men he himself had once trained, men who stood no chance against him.

Swords clanged and shone under the unforgiving sun. Jim fought because he had to, to save the boy and to protect himself and the hawk that would be lost without him; he fought fiercely, but there was indifference in his eyes. He did not care for death or for life, for the Bishop had stolen both from him, and left him only damnation.

He gasped when an arrow hit him between his shoulder and forearm, and he was about to double over for a moment, vision blurred and breath short… But then a shriek pierced the stifling air and forced him upwards into the saddle.

Kirk threw his head back in time to see his black bird halt his flight and begin a slow descent towards the ground.

“Hawk!” the Captain screamed, as if that scream could cancel the truth he saw with despairing eyes. He was wounded. “No…” It came out as a gentle murmur, a prayer to a God that had turned his back on him long before, and as the hawk kept falling – graceful, pitiful figure standing out dark against the sky – rage had the better of Jim, and such seething hatred he rarely felt.

Tearing the arrow from his own flesh without so much as batting an eyelid, the warrior planted it firmly into as soldier’s chest, then he rounded on another two, and had them falling from their horses in a matter of seconds.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pavel smash a log on his captor’s head before he ran towards the fallen bird. The kid was good, at least.

Refusing to think about what would become of him if his hawk died, the Captain charged once more, and finally the knights scattered. Not wasting another moment, Kirk jumped into the battered grass and rushed to the Mouse, pushing him aside.

Wincing in sympathetic pain, Jim cradled the whimpering bird in his hands, brushing his thumb over the unhurt wing. “Easy, you’ll be all right,” he crooned, trying to quiet his restless thrashing.

Turning to Chekov, he gave him a sharp, rushed order: “Get me a piece of cloth from my saddlebag!” Without bothering to check if he was actually carrying it out, Jim refocused all of his attention on his precious bird. “Easy, don’t be afraid, it’s all right, it’s all right…”

The cloth was handed to him, and he grabbed it at once, wrapping it around the tiny body with tender care. “You’ll be all right,” he soothed again, getting back to his feet. “You will be fine. You’ll live.”

He had to believe it lest he went crazy. There could exist no world in which he was not alive.

His _love_ …

Again, he addressed the boy who was hovering quite close, looking at him in frightened curiosity. “Take him, find help,” he said, sliding the hawk into his trembling hands. Oh, it broke him to let him go at such a time, but what else could he do? Night would be falling soon, and then…

“Me, sir?” Pavel stammered, looking pale and skittish.

“You’re the only one I have,” Jim hissed, very much regretting the circumstances that were forcing him to rely on one who had proven himself to be exceptionally unreliable.

“But sir, the hawk is done for,” the Mouse protested.

Kirk’s eyes flashed in fury and desperation. “Don’t you say that!” he growled, pushing the boy towards Goliath even as he attempted to flee his irony grasp. “Follow this road, you’ll find a ruined castle. There’s a monk named Leonard. Give him the hawk.” In his mind he prayed his friend had not yet returned to Paris as he’d said he one day would… There had to still be a sliver of hope for him – for _them_. There had to be. “He will know what to do.”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand...”

Having lost what little was left of his patience, Kirk snapped. “Get on my horse!”

“You’re the only one who can ride him,” the Mouse babbled again, clutching at the hawk in what was sure to be an uncomfortable grip.

The Captain shook him forcefully. “You will do as I tell you! Get on my horse, now!”

Unsteadily, the boy climbed upon Goliath’s back.

“Careful,” Jim warned when he saw him jostle the bird, “And know this... if you fail, I will follow you for the length of my days. And I _will_ find you.”

After he made sure the little thief had fully gotten his meaning, he patted the horse’s hind leg twice. “Go. Come on, go.”

The stallion raced away and the Captain stared at him until he was but a speck in the horizon. Then he collapsed to his knees in front of his abandoned sword, joined his hands before his chest and prayed.

_Let him live. Please, let him live. Please…_

* * *

“There it is, see? The castle. We’ll be there soon.”

Pavel didn’t even know why he was still speaking. Hell, he didn’t even know why he was even bothering to carry around the dying bird in the first place! Yes, it was true that the Captain had saved him yet again. And yes, it was also true that his expression when he’d demanded he saved the hawk had been the scariest he’d ever seen… But this was a lost case, and he was against lost cases as a matter of principle.

He prodded at the vulture’s breast in an attempt at soothing it in its last minutes of life, but all he got in return was a sharp bite to his finger. “Ah! Well, well, that’s gratitude for you!” he petulantly said, recoiling from the wounded animal. “All right, let this Leonard watch you die. I’ve got my own life to look after!”

It was almost sunset: the sky was darkening, and a bright line of red was spreading above the castle’s battlements; the building was half in ruins, and the Mouse wondered if there was still someone living there…

“Hello!” he called, “Hello... up there!”

Silence was his only answer. He began to grow frantic. “For pity’s sake, hello!”

Finally, a man emerged from the tangle of ivy and dead leaves on the walls, and he waved a hand. “Hello, hello! What do you want down there?”

Relieved, Pavel waved back. “I was told to bring you this bird. It’s been wounded.”

“Oh, good shot! Bring it in, we’ll dine together.”

“We can’t eat this bird,” the Mouse hastened to say in alarm, unconsciously clutching the little beast to his chest.

The monk huffed, sounding annoyed. “Why not... Oh, God, is it lent again already?!”

“This is no ordinary hawk, father,” Pavel explained, dismounting. “It belongs to a man named Kirk.”

“Mother of God!” Uncanny how the man’s demeanour changed in a breath of words. “Bring him in, bring him in!”

“Stay,” the boy ordered Goliath. Hopefully the horse wouldn’t wander too far. Then he set about climbing the precarious stairs that led to the top of the castle.

* * *

He was greeted by a scowl and a litany of “Up here, boy! Hurry. Hurry! Here, up here,” as if this kind of brisk encouragement would serve to help him sort out the unstable pavement and tricky stones. The bird whimpered whenever he hit the ground too hard, and if the arrow didn’t kill it, then all that movement surely would. “This way. Now, careful. Walk on the left side! There.”

As soon as they were face to face, Leonard took the hawk from him, handling it with a gentle care that did not seem to fit his grumpy, dishevelled appearance. He moved to settle it on a wide table inside what had to be the messiest room Pavel had ever seen, then immediately set about roaming around searching for remedies. “Now, leave us.”

Chekov pursed his lips. All this importance given to the fate of a bird had piqued his curiosity, and he, too, was starting to feel more than a little worried for its survival. “Can I help?” he earnestly offered.

The monk glared at him with piercing blue eyes. “Get out, boy,” he demanded. Unwilling to contradict him for some reason, the Mouse slipped away and went to hide behind the door.

When Leonard spoke again, it was directed at the hawk, and his voice was soft and soothing, as if he’d been talking to a child. “Don’t be frightened. Kirk was right: I know what to do… We must wait a little.”

“Now, then, where is it?” the monk muttered to himself, walking past Chekov without taking notice of him. “Oh, yes, there... Now, what ‘re we going to need? Some tarragon, rosemary, wood for the fire...”

The sun had begun to set, painting the sky with the colour of fresh blood. Pavel hoped it wasn’t an omen.

“It’s late,” Leonard hissed. “Time, I need time. Now, there, that’s it...”

Taking advantage of the man’s distraction, the young thief walked back into the dimly-lit room, wanting to make sure the bird hadn’t died in the interim.

But he froze, as if caught by a spell, because there was no hawk to be seen. Instead, lying on the wooden table beneath a ragged blanket, was the Vulcan.

The yellow candlelight washed over his ghostly-white skin, surrounding him in an eerie glow, and his hair was spread around his gaunt face like a halo. An arrow was planted in his chest. He turned towards the boy as soon as he heard him step in, and his eyes alone spoke of concern and a love too great to be narrated.

“Jim, is he…?” he began in an anxious whisper.

“He’s fine,” Pavel told him immediately, unable to bear the weight of so inhuman a gaze. “He’s just fine, my lord.”

The Vulcan visibly relaxed, as if nothing else mattered but the safety of the Captain, even when there was a dart so close to his heart and he could have been dead by now. But the creature seemed to be satisfied with the knowledge that Kirk was alive. It was so strange, this blind devotion.

“There was a terrible battle,” Chekov said, swallowing hard. He was finding it difficult to keep track of his thoughts. “Kirk fought like a lion. The hawk... The hawk was struck.” He looked upon the worn brown blanket and the sharp features of the Vulcan’s face, untouched by the sun. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the creature answered curtly. His voice was soft, haunting.

The Mouse had yet to move from the door. “Are you flesh?” he asked, over a shaky breath, “Or are you spirit?”

The Vulcan turned away from him, looking at the ceiling, and the boy found himself staring at his regal profile, at the collected grief he radiated. And as he stared, something inside him broke, and he knew he was forever trapped in this nightmare that the Captain had dragged him into, because walking away now would have been impossible.

“I am sorrow.”

Pavel was more than willing to believe this.

He waited. For what, he wasn’t sure. A sign, a word, anything that would absolve him of the guilt he was suddenly feeling – the world itself was guilty for hurting so lovely, so innocent, so enchanting a creature, and the Mouse begged to be excused, to be shown a way to leave the crowd of damned souls that had dared exist without devoting their lives to this Vulcan.

The sound of the door being thrown open barely shook him, but then Leonard was pushing at his shoulder. “How…?” he started to ask, then seemed to think better of it, and simply stormed inside the room. “Now, get out. Get _out_. This time, _stay_ out!”

* * *

Spock had not expected to see so familiar a face, and when the doctor walked by his side, carrying a bowl that smelled like herbs, he reached out an arm so he could touch his hand to his shoulder. “Hello, Leonard,” he greeted softly and with gratitude.

“Are you in pain?” was all the answer he got.

He shook his head. Leonard began to apply the cold concoction to the wound in his chest, and the Vulcan closed his eyes, tired and drained and trying to collect the mental energy required to control the healing of his body.

When he was done, the monk brushed his fingers through his patient’s hair in a characteristically human gesture, but the Vulcan tolerated it because he was lonely, and because he could feel the genuine worry and affection seeping into his skin from the contact. It was reassuring, in a way, to know that such a thing still existed.

Opening his eyes again, Spock glanced pointedly at the arrow still embedded in his chest, indicating without words that he was ready to have it removed. Pain was gathering in his muscles and limbs, a pain which he had no choice but to ignore.

“Brace yourself,” the doctor whispered, gentle and firm. The Vulcan fit both hands around the sides of the table, hoping he would have the presence of mind not to break it. It was, however, preferable to breaking human bones.

Leonard wrapped his fingers around the dart and for a charged moment they merely looked at each other. Then the doctor gave a sharp tug and dislodged it in one clean motion.

Spock screamed.

Far away, the golden wolf cried.

* * *

In Aquila, the Bishop was plagued by nightmares. Shadows were crawling into his mind, pulling at his body as if desperate to drag him down into the deepest pits of hell, where he would forever burn…

Rivulets of pain were coiling into his veins, rushing, rushing, until they converged just below his shoulder, where his heart was…

It was an insistent, intermittent ache, as if he’d been stabbed, and it felt so real…

He clutched at the sheets as his agony escalated.

Finally, he woke with a shriek.

Panting, terrified, lost in the question of what the dream meant for him and for the two beings to whom he had tied his life, the Bishop failed to notice that the refined doors to his private chambers had been opened wide.

Light bathed him, but he would have much rather had the darkness.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” his attendant hesitantly called.

When finally the clergyman raised his gaze upon him, the servant told him: “Cezar has arrived.”

The Bishop nodded, feeling a little more secure in himself now that the means of ending his feverish delirium were closer. The wolf had to die.

* * *

Pavel grabbed a carafe full of thick red wine and brought it unsteadily to the fireplace the monk had set under the stars. The Vulcan was resting – meditation, he had called it – inside the room, and the two had decided to leave him alone to his healing so they would not disturb him.

“It’s him, isn’t it? The wolf, somehow, it’s him,” the Mouse mused fretfully, head spinning with how hard these revelations were affecting him.

Leonard had nothing to offer him but a pitying look. “Drink, forget!” he warned, clinking their mugs together.

As he went to sit cross-legged, the boy shrugged helplessly. “An hour ago you were drunk, and you remembered,” he pointed out.

The monk’s eyes were surprisingly sharp when they fell on him. “What do they call you, boy?”

“Pavel Chekov.”

For a few minutes, they stared at one another; then the doctor seemed to deem him worthy of the truth, and sadness darkened his expression, bringing a softer tone into his voice. “His name is Spock of the House of Surak,” he told him, staring into the burgundy wine as if he was reading from it. “His father was Ambassador Sarek, a visionary fool. He found his death advocating for unity between Vulcans and humans.”

So there were other Vulcans, somewhere in France. Pavel wasn’t sure if this sudden knowledge scared him or thrilled him. He kept quiet, waiting for more.

“Spock came to live, with his cousin I think it was, far up North, in the forests of Bretagne.” Here Leonard returned his gaze to him, seemingly recalling a bittersweet memory. “I shall never forget the first time I saw him. It was like looking at...”

“The face of love,” Chekov finished for him.

A knowing smirk passed over the doctor’s lips. “Ah, you too?” he lightly teased. “Well, I suppose we were all in love with him in different ways.”

He set the mug down with a sharp clacking noise, and lowered his voice, as if afraid they would be overheard. The Mouse leaned towards him. “Even His Grace, the Bishop, couldn’t think of nothing else.”

Pavel’s eyes went wide, and he forgot all about the Vulcan’s presence in his sudden disbelief: “The Bishop _loved_ him?!” he very nearly shouted.

Leonard made a shushing motion with his hand, and snarled threateningly: “You will let him have his rest or _so help me God_ I will make you pay!”

It was only several minutes later that he resumed his tale: “As near as that evil man could come to it,” he said, disgust clear in his lined face, “His passion was a sort of _madness_. He was a man _possessed_!” He took a sip of wine, looked up at the nearly full moon. “But Spock sensed his wickedness, and he shrank from him. He sent back his letters – unopened – and his poems – unread!”

Then Pavel saw him smile, an indulgent, affectionate smile. “His heart was already lost, you see... to the Captain of the Guard.”

The Mouse couldn’t help himself: “James Kirk!” he cried in sudden understanding. Of course. Of course he’d want nothing but to save the hawk. He _loved_ him.

“The Bishop knew nothing about their love,” the doctor went on, “But every day he saw it grow stronger and deeper and richer. Until...”

He sighed deeply, and fell silent.

“Until?” Chekov prompted after a while, lifting himself up into a kneeling position in his eagerness to know more.

“They were betrayed!” the monk revealed, anger heating his voice and his cheeks. “You see, I have known Jim since he was a child – and he shared the secret of his love with me; but the day we spoke, was the day they were doomed.”

Pavel took a moment to contemplate this, to fully understand the amount of pain and guilt this man must be feeling. He reached out for the carafe and re-filled his mug.

“His second in command – now _Captain_ Finney, that wretched man! – overheard us.”

The Mouse found himself at a loss for words; hatred seeped into his mind, and he went pale with ire. How could he – how _dare_ he…

“He revealed the lovers’ secret vows to the Bishop. The fool was after Jim’s Captaincy, he didn’t realize what he had done at first... or the terrible revenge the Bishop would exact.”

Suddenly, Pavel regretted ever asking this story to be told, but there was no stopping Leonard now. So he swallowed, and braced himself for the harsh truth, biting down on his lower lip, hands clenched so tightly around his mug that his knuckles had gone white.

“His Grace seemed to go mad… he lost both his sanctity and his reason.” The moon and the fire cast strange, flickering shadows on the monk’s figure, highlighting his thinness and the piercing way in which his eyes shone. “He swore that if he could not have the Vulcan, no man would.

“So, Kirk and Spock fled from Aquila – they thought to hide in the Forest of Broceliande, where the Vulcans dwell. The Bishop followed, ever more ardent, ever more persistent than a _hound_.”

He shook his head, threw a pebble into the crackling flames. “An evil man, a powerful man, hated and feared; rejected even by Rome itself.

“He called upon the powers of darkness for the means to _damn_ the lovers. In his fury and frustration, he struck a dreadful bargain... with the Evil One.”

Chekov swallowed. He didn’t even dare blink.

“The dark powers of hell spat up a terrible curse, and you have seen it working. By day, Spock is the beautiful bird you brought to me. And by night, as you have already guessed... the voice of the wolf that we hear... is the cry of Kirk.”

And yes, he had known this, had known something was off with the whole adventure since the beginning of it, but to have it confirmed like this… to have this madness spoken of as if it was positive and real and very much there… It was an entirely different thing.

“Poor dumb creatures, with no memory of the half-life of their existence, never touching in the flesh. Only the anguish of a split second at sunrise and sunset... when they can almost touch... but _not_.”

Leonard ran a hand through his messy dark hair and sighed again. “Always together... eternally apart. As long as the sun rises and sets, as long as there is day and night and _for as long as they both shall live_.”

It was so cruel. So unjust. The Mouse thought of the creature laying in sleep in the room behind him, thought of his pain and the three words he’d uttered in a gentle, gentle voice, _I am sorrow_ , he had said, and he _was_ , he was broken and wretched and lost… So, so lonely.

“You have stumbled onto a tragic story, Pavel Chekov. And now, whether you like it or not... you are lost in it, with the rest of us.”

* * *

Behind the waterfall there is a cave; a place of silence and crystalline light and fresh, tingling air. Spock leads Kirk inside one day of the eternal spring the Vulcans have wrapped their forest within, and shows him into the secluded area, invites him to sit by a tiny pond.

The human looks around himself in awe even as he joins their fingers and leans in to place a soft kiss on his temple; it is soothing to have him so near, so ready to welcome and accept, and Spock lets himself be lulled by the distant sound of falling water and his beloved’s tender caresses.

“This place is my refuge,” he murmurs, unwilling to disturb the quiet by speaking too loudly. “I thought I might share it with you.”

The Captain’s smile is wide and carries with it the warmth of a beam of sunlight. “I’m honoured, dearest,” he says, brushing his black hair back with a gentle touch that slides down his neck to land on his shoulder. “It’s, ah… _vaksurik_? Beautiful?”

Spock nods, pleased, and shifts closer to him. “That is correct.”

For a while they are silent, and Jim presses his lips lightly on the side of his face, trailing along the fine bones that are put into sharp relief by the strange light filtering through the waterfall. The Vulcan listens to the sound of his heartbeat, slower than his own, and drinks in the sight of him, committing it to memory now that he can, wanting to be sure he will remember every little detail of him once their time together is finished and they are torn apart.

Because they will be, won’t they? If there’s one thing he has come to expect of life is that it will never allow a good thing to last – that good things are ephemeral and have no place in a world that feeds off greed and anger and violence.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” the human tells him, taking both his hands in his and squeezing lightly. His gaze is intent, fixed on him with just the barest hint of nervousness, and Spock does his best to return it without faltering, and to ignore the thrill running across his fingers.

It takes Kirk a few more moments – three point seventeen seconds – to finally voice his thoughts. “Will you marry me?”

_What?_ The Vulcan freezes on the spot like a struck deer, and his eyes grow wide and disbelieving. He must have misunderstood; surely, he would never… “I beg your pardon?”

“Will you marry me, Spock?” Jim demands then, erasing the space between them so their noses are mere inches from each other. “I love you, and I want to share my life with you. I will provide for anything you might need, everything I own will be yours as well, and you know I can protect you.” He places a soft kiss on his parted lips only to pull back with a bashful smile: “We can stay here in Broceliande, or in Aquila if you wish. Or we can travel – anything you desire. I will do my very best to make you happy. So be mine, marry me.”

Spock blinks uncomprehendingly, and lowers their joint hands into his own lap, too frightened to let go of him. “Are you sure?” is all he finds it in himself to reply, “Are you sure it is me that you want?”

Obviously, the Captain wasn’t expecting that, for he laughs, a rich, earthly sound. “If I weren’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked,” he very reasonably points out.

“But do you not know…?”

A shadow of worry passes across the human’s face. “Know what, Spock?”

Finally, Spock slides away from his grip, and curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his legs; he stares at the turquoise waters of the pool and makes himself speak in a low, measured tone. “Bad things will happen to you because of me.”

“That’s… that’s not true, dearest,” Jim whispers, following to where he’s retreated so he can pull him in his caring embrace. The Vulcan goes willingly, unable to resist the touch of his t’hy’la and the love he so effortlessly conveys. “I would be the most fortunate of men if I had you.”

Spock hides his grimace into the soft, familiar fabric of the traditional robes he has lent Kirk when he decided to extend his stay. He is so warm, so human. So utterly unaware of the enormity of what he is offering, and the pain that will most surely befall him were the half-blood to agree to such an unfortunate (yet so, so desired) union. “You would not.”

Kirk pushes away. His face is troubled, hurt even. “Do you not want to marry me?” he says seriously, “If that’s the case, just tell me, and I will never speak of this again.”

Caught under the weight of his t’hy’la’s gaze, the Vulcan finds he is incapable of lying, not even to save him. “Of course – of course I wish to marry you!” he confesses in a heated rush of words. He cups the Captain’s face in his hands and stares at him earnestly. “How could I not, Jim? It is for you that I fear.”

Perhaps sensing that his admission is no cause for celebration, Jim frowns, takes hold of his wrists to free himself of his brittle grip. “I don’t understand.”

“No. You would not.” Spock sighs, straightens his back with newfound resolve. “I will show you, then.”

Curtly, without unnecessarily wasting time, he pulls at the silvery string that keeps the upper half of his tunic closed, and lets it fall on the ground before him; shivering in discomfort and from the echo of unwanted memories resurfacing in a chaotic jumble, he shrugs out of the sleeves, and stills so the human can inspect his naked torso.

For a heartbeat the Captain merely stares at him, awe-struck, but as soon as he begins to notice the disquieting pattern of scars that twists all along his ribcage and hips, darkness fills his eyes. He raises a furious glare upon him, and Spock instinctively recoils. “Who did this?” the human growls, “Who did this to you? Name them, that I may destroy them.”

The half-blood releases a trembling breath, and allows himself the luxury of trusting him enough to return by his side. He crosses his arms before his chest as if to hide, but when Kirk’s hands reach for him they are warm and infinitely tender, tracing a loving, tentative path over his marred skin; the human moves slowly and in a predictable manner, gentling him until he relaxes enough to rest his weight against him.

Jim embraces him again, this time holding him as tight as his strength allows, and never has Spock felt this safe, and perhaps this is real, and it can be so for a little while longer? Oh, how he wishes it. “They called my mother a witch. They said I was the spawn of the devil,” he whispers into the Captain’s neck. He will not – cannot face him just now. “Father was not home and they – the people – they decided it was best to… kill us. They threw knives and stones at us. Mother died, and I barely survived.”

As the human tightens his grip even more, the half-blood shudders and closes his eyes, reaching behind to link their fingers in an attempt at steadying himself. “My father lost his reason. He has never said, but I believe he blamed me for her death.”

Kirk kisses his forehead. “Spock, if you think that is going to change anything, you’re wrong. I love you; if I could find those people that hurt you and kill them for you, I would.”

“I did not tell you this for you to pity me,” Spock says firmly. “You must understand it will not do you good to call me yours.”

Smiling, Jim shakes his head at him. “I don’t believe you,” he tells him simply, hazel eyes softening with the depth of his feeling, “And I want you to marry me. So will you?” He lifts his chin to brush their lips together, a delicate touch that somehow manages to make its way into the Vulcan’s very soul. “Will you marry me, my dearest?”

“And you are absolutely adamant in your decision?” the half-blood insists, wanting to make sure, and still quite incredulous of the good fortune that has befallen him.

The Captain nods. “I am,” he assures him, before crossing his arms in front of his chest. His face sports a strange expression, half-impatient, half-inviting. “Now, if you please, answer me, dearest, before I go mad.”

“Oh, Jim,” Spock sighs, showing him a swift smile, and in his mind he hides his doubts and the fears he will never conquer entirely. “You are my t’hy’la, and my chosen companion.” It does not do to dwell on what was, on the pain that was once received; it does not do to refuse a blessing merely because it might one day be taken from him… And he loves Jim, loves him enough that he is willing to try – put his faith in another and hope for the best.

It is terrifying, but he wants to. “I would be yours according to the laws and customs of your land.”

Jim’s eyes brighten and he laughs, a carefree, winning, magnificent sound that bounces off the silvery walls of the cavern and mingles beautifully with the distant roar of flowing water. “And yours, too?”

“If that is what you desire,” Spock says, grasping his hand so they can join first and middle fingers.

“It is.”

“Then yes. My answer is yes.”

* * *

The Bishop stood stone-still inside the dimly-lit dungeons of Aquila; surrounded by a pale, sickly-red light, he stared at the cart bearing a colourful variety of wolf furs that the hunter had presented him. “Useless. All of them,” he growled.

Cezar shook his head of wiry hair and opened his arms, stained palms facing up. “My traps are full,” he explained in rough, barking tones that likened him to the wild animals he so liked to slaughter. “I can’t kill every wolf that lives! Since the plague there are more wolves than men!”

This the clergyman could not refuse. In a sharp, unexpected motion he whirled around, eyes lost in the contemplation of the dying candles. “And there is a Vulcan.”

“Your Grace?”

“A beautiful Vulcan... with alabaster skin, and the eyes of a dove.” The Bishop’s mouth was pressed in a thin line and his blue eyes glinted with ugly greed. “He travels by night, _only by night_. His sun is the moon. And his name is... _Spock_.”

Silence fell at the sound of the inhuman name – everything seemed to still, even the trembling flames littering the walls. Cezar watched the holy man pace about the corridor, and it was as if his restlessness was even more frightening than his unnatural immobility of before.

“Find him, and you find the wolf. The wolf I want.” Here he paused, as if searching for the right words; his long white robes whooshed ominously, brushing against the dusty floor. “The wolf who... _loves_ him. A golden wolf.”

He snapped his fingers and the hunter was off.

* * *

The Mouse ventured into the ruined room when it was less than an hour till dawn, and called out quietly: “Spock?”

From his place laying about the table the Vulcan arched his neck and made to lift himself up into a sitting position; when he raised his head his hair fell back messily.

“Don’t, don’t,” Pavel hurried to say, “You might start bleeding again.”

He approached the mystical being slowly, as if afraid he would offend by moving too fast, and stood by him, trying his best to come to terms with the truth of his existence. He looked so pale and so alien and so sorrowful.

“Tell me your name,” Spock ordered gently, watching him curiously.

“Most people call me Pavel _The Mouse_ ,” Chekov answered at once, tripping over his words in his haste to please him.

The Vulcan’s gaze was soft, inviting, and again the little human wondered how anyone could even conceive to do him harm. “You travel with him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Pavel admitted over a rush of guilt, guilt at being allowed to spend time with Spock’s beloved when the two were forced eternally apart. “ _You must save this hawk_ , he said,” the boy told him, thinking there was no harm in twisting reality a bit for the sake of comforting someone. God wouldn’t resent him for lying this time. “ _For he is my life, my last and best reason for living_.”

After all, it was nothing that hadn’t been clearly visible in the Captain’s desperate gaze of the previous afternoon, when he’d leaned down on the wounded hawk to soothe it with a delicate touch and loving words.

“And then he said: _One day we will know such happiness... as two people dream of, but never do_.”

Spock turned away. “He said that?” he very quietly asked.

“I swear it on my life.”

With a sigh, the Vulcan closed his eyes and crossed his hands over his chest. Then he was silent.

* * *

“The Bishop is a disgusting man,” Spock hisses bluntly one evening in Aquila. Sitting on the Captain’s bed in his nightly clothes, he fixes his stare on the open window and on the stars that have just begun to rise, and waits for his lover to join him.

“I _had_ told you, darling,” Jim reminds him gently, bending over him to kiss his forehead before he is once again off; he locks the door from the inside, dips his hands into a basin to cleanse them and finally returns to his Vulcan.

“He desires me,” Spock points out then, grasping his hand to pull him closer. “His mind is very loud about it.”

The Captain lifts the expensive heavy blankets for them to slide beneath, and they curl around one another, shifting restlessly until they find a comfortable position. “You know we can leave whenever you wish it,” he murmurs into velvety strands of black hair. “Just say so, and I will resign my post and pack our things.”

“Thank you, my t’hy’la,” the Vulcan whispers back, brushing his cool lips against the human’s warmer skin. His fingers make their way up and down Kirk’s spine, tickling slightly. “I do not believe there will be need for that.”

Jim nods a little, humming low down his throat. “Well, then, you’re just going to have to reject his advances.”

Spock slides away into the pillow to look him in the eyes: “ _Will_ there be advances? I was under the impression the Bishop had made a vow of celibacy.”

“Let’s hope there won’t be,” the Captain whispers, absent-mindedly braiding his beloved’s hair. “But, please, sweetheart, don’t let him near you.”

The Vulcan presses a hand to his face, brushing his thumb rhythmically over his cheek. “Have I to fear?” he asks seriously. His mouth curves downwards as he’s once again forced to confront the fact that humans are liars, that humans are deceitful and dangerous and ugly.

“I do not know,” Jim admits, twining their fingers again. “But I swear, my love… I swear that if he touches you, I will kill him.”

At that, Spock closes his eyes and burrows closer against him; privately, he vows to do all that he can so that his t’hy’la won’t ever have to turn against so powerful a man… No matter the cost.

* * *

The Vulcan had fallen asleep, so Pavel thought it better to shut the door behind himself and wander about the castle in search of the monk. He found him by the walkway, crouched and muttering profanities to himself as he angrily tore off medicinal herbs.

As soon as he caught sight of him, Leonard stood briskly, looking out into the greying sky. “The Lord has declared an end to it at last,” he said, gesturing for the boy to follow him back to where Spock rested. “He has given me the knowledge to undo what has been done.”

Chekov trotted along, hoping for some breakfast, but the doctor did not seem to care much about food, too lost in his friends’ plight and the more immediate task of soothing the Vulcan’s wound. “After two years, he has brought us back together again.”

Unsure of his meaning, the thief fixed his hands on his hips and very nearly begged: “Make yourself clear, if you can.” He’d never had much patience for riddles.

“I have found a way to break the curse and a time for Jim to confront the Bishop.” Leonard cracked the wooden door open with great care, tiptoed inside and retrieved his faithful mortar and pestle. “…And to begin his own true life again.”

Watching the plants rapidly melt to become a balm, the boy distractedly said: “He _intends_ to confront the Bishop, to kill him with the sword of his ancestors.”

The monk’s surprisingly strong hand went to wrap around his arm in a vice grip, and their eyes met. “No, he mustn’t do that! He can’t! If he kills the Bishop, the curse can never be broken!”

And then they heard it – the sound of galloping horses and soldiers shouting orders in the distance. At once, Leonard smacked his hand into the other’s chest, pushing him deeper inside the room. “Look after Spock, boy!” he shouted, “Go, quickly!”

Pavel stumbled over the chipped floor and, heart pounding in his throat, he rushed towards the Vulcan.

* * *

“Open up the door, in the name of His Holiness the Bishop of Aquila!” came the loud screech from beneath.

Leonard made a show of swaying on the spot as he leaned over the balustrade to peer at the men gathered in a circle. There were six. “Ah, away with you!” he called, waving a hand. He slurred his words as if he’d been drunk: “This is a house of God, not a brothel!”

The highest-ranking soldier slapped his crop on his horse’s neck impatiently. “I said, open up, in the name of the _Bishop_!”

Playing the fool, the monk shook his head of wiry hair and crossed his arms. “I’ve met the Bishop, you _blasphemous lout_! And you look _nothing_ like him!”

Apparently losing what little patience he possessed, the knight jumped off his stallion and snapped: “Break it in!”

* * *

The Mouse dashed across the room and – swallowing down his instinctual fear of touching him – he shook the Vulcan by the unwounded shoulder. “My lord! My lord. Come with me.”

Spock was standing in the blink of an eye, alert and ready for a fight. “What is it?” he asked quickly as he wrapped his lose white tunic about him.

“Don’t talk, come with me,” Pavel hissed, leading him to where a minuscule door opened on a spiral staircase. Hoping for the best, they slipped in.

* * *

As the soldiers swarmed his castle, a sinking feeling overwhelmed Leonard; he glanced at the sky – it was not yet dawn: he couldn’t hope for Jim to be there just yet. He was probably off somewhere in the woods, trapped in the body of the yellow wolf. Spock was hurt, weakened, and maimed by whatever it was that the curse was doing to the telepathic bonds in his head. Couldn’t count on him either.

He led the Bishop’s servants up to the walkway, and watched as the first two men crashed into the lake below because the floor had given under their weight. “Sorry! I am a doctor, not an architect!” the monk cheerfully said from above.

“Move it in here!” One of the soldiers attempted to push him away, but in one swift motion Leonard pulled out a knife and slit his throat. He, too, feel into the hole and down the water.

“Don’t you dare come any closer!” the doctor growled, teeth bare and eyes flashing dangerously. “ _By God’s bones_ , I _will_ kill you!”

* * *

The spiral staircase was narrow, bent to one side as if the tower was ready to give in and crumble to pieces in the chasm below. The Mouse rushed upwards, hoping against hope to find a room, a closet, a passageway, anything they could hide in to escape from the Bishop’s soldiers; the fingers of his left hand were curled around the worn fabric of the Vulcan’s wide sleeve, and he tugged him along, too afraid of losing him to let go.

Spock let him, if only because he wasn’t touching his bare skin, and made himself follow, even though he was tired and dizzied and his mind was swimming in the pain of a broken bond; normally he would have been able to drain it, shield it somehow, but now he was focused on healing the wound in his chest, and the loss of energy was taking its toll on him.

A hiss escaped him when he stumbled. If he’d had the strength, he would have worried about Leonard, left alone to face the soldiers, and oh, the Vulcan did wish he could help him somehow, but he was so useless… And it seemed as if the stairs would never end, and now there were men shouting beneath, armours clanging loudly as they run up, giving chase.

As soon as he saw it, the boy pushed him towards a heavy trapdoor; they opened it together. “In here, my lord,” Pavel said, helping him climb outside. The men were getting closer…

Spock drew back instinctually when the human jumped up towards him, and nearly fell – they had found their way on top of the tower, and the circle of battlements was in ruins, almost completely gone: there was nothing keeping them from plummeting to their death against the mountain’s rocky bosom.

“Careful!” the Mouse blurted out, eyes widened and face ashen as he pulled the Vulcan close again. It took him half a second to realise this had to be the worst hiding place he’d ever come across. _Providence, now would be a good time to help us somehow, if you want, of course._

He glanced at the trembling vision beside him, bit down on his lip. “Go back, back inside,” he finally decided, throwing the trapdoor open for them to slide in.

They had taken but a few steps when three soldiers ambushed them. Pavel froze, then turned tail, pushing the Vulcan up and swearing under his breath. They rushed upwards, and Spock struggled against the heavy wood with shaking fingers for a moment before he had the door open again.

It appeared as if the men were unwilling to draw their swords, and the Vulcan knew why, knew who had sent them and what he desired, and for a moment he thought about giving himself up to them just so he could be close enough to the Bishop to murder him.

The prospect was appealing, and he hesitated for a split second at the top of the stairs, watching the little human struggle to free himself from the knights’ hold… But then again the child would most certainly be killed if they were captured… Shaking his head as if to clear it, Spock moved fast, tearing the Mouse from their grasp effortlessly.

“It is me they’re after,” he muttered. They both retreated as the soldiers stared at the mythological creature come to life before them, at the green blood splattered over his tunic and at the tips his ears and his slanted eyebrows and the strange aura surrounding him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Pavel said over a bitter laugh.

They crowded back up the trapdoor, shut it. Wind blew cold that morning, and the sky was clearing, bringing the promise of a new day ripe with pain and danger. As he crouched over the inconsequential square of ancient wood to keep it closed under the assaults of the men below, Spock counted the minutes left before the curse claimed him again and turned him into a bird.

He feared for the boy – changing into a hawk would surely enable _him_ to flee from the Bishop’s servants, but Pavel would be left alone and unprotected. He was so young…

And then the trapdoor snapped open, and both lost their balance – they rolled over the dirty stone floor and it was so slippery and all went so fast – the Vulcan was suddenly thrown into the void.

A scream was torn from his mouth when the Mouse grabbed him by his left wrist to save him.

But save him he could not, Spock knew. He was too heavy for so thin a human to lift; he could see the boy’s skinny arms quake violently, and even if he gritted his teeth and forced himself to hold on to him, his grip was loosening, becoming unstable.

The wound hurt the Vulcan grievously, and more blood spilled into the white fabric. He was going to die, was he not? He could feel the pull of gravity hooked into his stomach, yet oddly there was no fear, just a distant sense of relief… Perhaps if he died the curse would be broken; perhaps, if he died, Jim would be free – he would mourn him and suffer but he would be alive and free, finally free.

Spock deserved to die for what he had done to his t’hy’la: it was his fault, everything, _he_ had asked the Captain to take him to Aquila, _he_ had been the one to think becoming Ambassador was a good idea, _he_ had refused to flee when he had been offered the chance…

He had trapped his _ashayam_ in this poor excuse of existence. It had been all his doing. He had made the wrong choices – fitting, for a misfit such as he was. And if he died now, maybe he would find atonement.

The air smelled so sweet. It reminded him of home somehow, and if he closed his eyes he could almost pretend he was lost in the depths of the Forest of Broceliande, hidden safely by those loyal trees… He could pretend the shallow roaring sound in his ears came from the waterfall that marked the entrance to his favourite cave, he could pretend Jim was with him, and they shared that beautiful silence and the human’s touch was warm on his skin and their minds were joined and melting together like they were meant to, always.

He let go.

“No!”

Pavel screamed when the Vulcan’s fingers eventually slipped away from his, and his heart leapt in his throat as he saw him fall, fall, down, down, down, arms spread, not a sound escaping him as death approached.

And in his mind the Mouse begged, he begged for mercy, for a miracle to rescue this magnificent, fragile creature that so much more deserved from a world that had turned its back on him.

_Please, please, please._

_Please, don’t let it happen._

_Please._

The white robe was flapping, like wings, like it was an angel falling, and the sun was about to rise…

Light spread golden into the valley, enveloping the Vulcan so suddenly it looked as if he had caught on fire, and then he was no more, and the blessed screech of a hawk filled the stillness, and black feathers shone proudly as the bird sore high and away.

Pavel’s eyes filled with tears of relief and his breath rushed into an airy laugh. _Thank you, God_. He tried to come up with something to promise in return for this miracle, but in truth he found nothing he could ever do or become that would be worth the Vulcan’s life.

A shout behind him reminded him of the chase that had been taking place mere minutes before, and he glanced around frantically, searching for a place to hide. When the two remaining soldiers climbed up on the roof, the thief was gone, but it didn’t take them long to spot him crouched under an ornamental gargoyle, barely hanging on to the side of the tower for dear life.

“You! Where is the Vulcan?”

Recoiling further into the stone, Chekov did his best to convince himself the marble wasn’t going to crumble beneath him. “He flew away!”

“ _Where is he?!_ ”

One of the knights bent carefully towards him; one movement and he would send him falling.

“God’s truth, he flew away!”

Frustration and anger twisted the man’s face and Pavel could easily point out the moment when he decided the thief’s life wasn’t worth his time; but before he could strike him dead, an arrow flew into his chest and sent him toppling down against the rocks.

At the same moment, Leonard burst through the trapdoor, hissing angrily and wielding a knife and a stolen sword. The lone soldier stood no chance against his fury, and in a matter of minutes the monk had him at his mercy.

The Mouse couldn’t believe his good fortune: he waved cheerfully at Captain Kirk as he approached the castle with the hawk perched faithfully on his shoulder. “It always pays to say the truth, my Lord,” he said, taking Leonard’s proffered hand. “Thank you. I see that now.”

* * *

The Captain held his precious hawk to his chest as he waited for his friend to join him. The bird’s small, warm body was all he could focus on, and he barely noticed the chill of the early morning air or the way the sun had paled, as if readying for snow…

He smiled brightly when he heard Leonard stomp down the stairs and spread his arms wide – the hawk retreated to his shoulder, screeching in displeasure – to greet him. “I thought you might have been gone, old man!” Kirk said around a forceful hug, clapping the monk on his back with enthusiasm. He caught Pavel’s sheepish expression from where he was dawdling by the wall, and smiled at him too.

Leonard broke from his hold but kept his hands clasped around his elbows; in those two years of separation, he looked like he had aged ten all of a sudden: he had the appearance of a man who had wasted his energy and his eyesight buried in books day and night, unheeding of the rest of the world and too wrapped up in his research to stop for food and drink.

“It’s been so long since we’ve spoken last.” The Captain sighed, not wanting to recall the circumstances of their last goodbye. His fingers ran up to touch the hawk’s feathers, and his face lightened a little. “I’m very grateful... for this.”

The monk grinned, but otherwise did not acknowledge his gratitude past a dismissive gesture of his hand; his cerulean eyes, however, were shining. “It is I who should be grateful to have the chance to save you and Spock!”

Taken aback, Kirk merely blinked.

“Because the Lord has told me how the curse may be broken.”

An insignificant, tiny, tentative sliver of hope began to rise in the Captain’s chest, but he crushed it ruthlessly before it could sink its evil claws within his heart and make it its home. The hawk’s weight was tangible, and so were his claws that dug in the human’s shoulder, constant reminder of all that he desired, all he could not have.

“You have tried so many things, Leonard,” he softly said, turning as if to leave. “I have had enough of deluding myself.”

Leonard reached out and caught his right arm in a steely grip, forcing the soldier to face him. He spoke fast, well aware he would be soon interrupted, and his tone was low, serious. “Three days hence, the Bishop will hear confessions from the clergy in the cathedral in Aquila.”

James resigned himself to the fact that his friend was not going to leave him be until he at least listened to him. It wasn’t without a certain fondness that he stopped, thinking that after all, it wouldn’t hurt to hear.

“All you have to do is to confront him, both of you, as man and Vulcan... in the flesh!” the monk declared, as if he wasn’t stating an impossibility, as if there existed a way for them to be rid of their ugly destiny, even for an hour. “And the curse will be confounded – broken. And both of you will be free!”

Shaking his head, the Captain glanced at his beloved hawk. “Impossible.”

“As long as there is night and day!” Leonard snapped, and of course it was true, but such was the world, a night would always be followed by a day, and how could a mortal escape this cycle? “But _three days hence_ , in Aquila, there will be a day _without a night_ and a night _without a day_.”

Kirk stared, as if determined to call out a joke that must be in place – or had his friend finally gone mad, with guilt and the desperate desire to aid him? “Go back inside, old man, go back to your drink,” he murmured, wanting to believe this nonsense was merely alcohol-induced.

Leonard’s eyes flashed, he bared his teeth. “You think that I’m drunk?!” he hissed, outrage written in every line of his tired face. “I swear to you! God has shown me!”

Finally, Jim’s tight control broke, and all those months of pain and frustration and uncertainty and helpless anger crashed upon him, sizzling like molten metal in his veins and lending a chill to his voice. “What God? The God that gave us this? Don’t you think that if He’d wanted us to be free we would be by now?”

More than anything, it was the sympathy the monk was showing him that infuriated the Captain. “Jim, you must heed my warning – if you kill the Bishop there is no hope…”

“There already is no hope!” Kirk shouted, chain mail tinkling as he gesticulated wildly to emphasise his point. The hawk screeched, disturbed, and flapped his wings. “All we have left is this wretched half-life! And I promised I would bring it to an end!”

Leonard tried again: “Please, Jim.”

“No.” The Captain was unshakable. “I have made my decision. The Bishop will die.”

The monk huffed, but wisely chose not to press his point any further. Instead, he gruffly caught both his hands and let two leather sacks that smelled like a variety of wild herbs fall into his friend’s open palms. “For Spock,” he curtly said. “Apply as a concoction to the wound, or even drink if he wants. He knows.”

Jim’s fury evaporated as suddenly as it had manifested itself. “Thank you, Bones,” he said. Then, after a pause: “Was he… Did he seem…?”

Leonard understood even if he did not find the strength to formulate his question. “That broken bond in his head – it’s giving him hell, Jim,” he told him bluntly, never one to mince words. “He’s in so much pain I can’t even imagine.”

Kirk petted the hawk’s tiny head, even though he knew it was pointless and futile to try and soothe an ache that only existed at night. “Is there anything you can do?”

“I don’t know.” The monk had never liked admitting defeat, and he _was_ the most competent physician in all of France – a miracle worker, one who could rise the dead from their graves and give them another ten years of life. “Perhaps his people could help him. But the only way to save him…”

“There is none.”

Leonard did not reply.

* * *

When he saw the Captain was taking his leave, Pavel hurried after him, struggling to wrap his satchel about his waist and run at the same moment. “Sir, sir!” he called, smiling cheekily at the man as soon as he stopped and turned to him. “How’s your shoulder?”

Kirk fixed his golden stare on the boy. One hand wrapped around Goliath’s reins, the other stroking his hawk’s feathers, he resumed his walking, though slower than before. “I’m in your debt,” he murmured. He dropped his gaze to the ground, watching the grass flatten under his own boots and the horse’s hooves. He had to set the thief free, no matter how much it would cost him; he had saved Spock. Nothing else mattered.

The Mouse blinked at him in confusion. “Me?” he repeated, tripping over his own words in his haste to reassure him. “Sir, no, no, not at all.”

Then the enchanted hawk gave a low sort of screech, and the boy’s attention fell immediately on him. “He wanted me to deliver a message...” he told the Captain in a sudden burst of inspiration, “To say that he still has hope, _faith_ in you…”

Kirk wasn’t listening. “You’re free to go.”

“I know that, sir,” said Pavel thoughtfully, quickening his pace to keep up with the soldier’s hastened strides.

“Do as you like.”

“Yes, sir!” As if he could leave now that he knew the truth. As if he could ever forget the pain and muted love hidden in the Vulcan’s eyes. As is there was a way for him to turn his back on this absurd tragedy of theirs and keep on living like it had never happened. “And you and your Vulcan sweeting will be going on to Aquila?” he asked, trying his best to sound casual and disinterested.

“ _My Vulcan sweeting_?” Jim repeated softly to himself. “Yes.”

“Well, it just so happens, I’m headed in that general direction myself.”

A playful smirk passed across the Captain’s face at that, and he gave the boy a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Really? Then you’d better grab your things, I’m leaving.”

“Right.” Pavel owned no other things but the few that fit his satchel, so he just kept on walking.

Reaching his arm up, Kirk let his faithful bird take flight, and watched him sail into the clear winter sky until he was but a speck of black against endless blue. “Vulcan sweeting…” A chuckle escaped him as he imagined Spock’s indignation at being called a _sweeting_.

* * *

They travelled for the whole duration of the day. Only once did the Mouse attempt to bring up the subject of Leonard’s magnificent revelation. He knew the monk was following them, they had agreed on it earlier in the morning, and he was wondering how Kirk would react once he found out.

“But if the doctor is right about breaking the curse...” he said tentatively, looking up at the Captain in time to see him stiffen, jaw set and mouth pressed into a thin line. Nonetheless, the boy went on: “If you and Spock could face the Bishop together as man and Vulcan...”

Kirk rendered him silent with a mere gesture. “You will not mention this again,” he ordered, and there was no trace of the undercurrent of kindness that usually laced his voice. “Not to me and _not to him_. Understood?”

The last thing Jim wanted was for Spock to find hope in something that would never come to be, only to have that hope crushed again and again and again as it had too many times happened in the past two years.

It was pointless, it was cruel, and _he would not allow it_.

* * *

“Abraham, will you get a move on!”

Leonard’s annoyed drawl filled the silent forest as he patted his horse’s neck with perhaps a little more force than he was wont to. “You useless nag…” he muttered as the beast picked up its pacing, but only just.

“Damn you, Jim, and your stubbornness,” the monk hissed between clenched teeth. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days. And then who will take care of that reckless Vulcan of yours?”

He dipped his right hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around the assortment of fresh and dried herbs he had collected, as if to make sure they were still there. “Oh, sure, sure, don’t believe me! Go on and get your _stupid_ vengeance!”

A bird flew above him, stopping on a high branch to regard him, tiny head cocked to the side; he narrowed his eyes at it angrily. “What?” he growled. “How much are you willing to bet he’ll come back crying to me in three days?”

Of course, the little animal did not reply, and Leonard huffed quietly and kicked his heels. “Hurry! We must hurry, before it is too late!”

* * *

Plumbeous clouds were gathering low over the scattered trees guarding the edge of the forest. Pavel shivered, and instinctively tightened his loose clothes about his small frame.

“It looks like a big one, Captain. We’re gonna get soaked.”

Kirk nodded, pointed at the few yellow lights that could be seen nearby. “Find shelter,” he said, dismounting. “The sun is going down.”

Curious, the Mouse turned towards him. “How can you tell?”

“After so many sunsets?”

The Captain showed him a rueful smile. He called his hawk to his shoulder, then very carefully wrapped the sturdy cloth he used to protect his arm around the boy’s elbow all the way to his wrist. Then he gently urged the bird to perch there, and Pavel took him clumsily, wincing when the sharp claws pricked his skin.

“Take care of my Vulcan,” Kirk instructed, passing the thief Goliath’s reins as well. “Tell him I love him.”

* * *

Pavel made his way inside the barn where the Captain’s immense horse had been housed. The hawk sitting on his arm seemed to watch him with those round, amber eyes of his. “Are you hungry?” the boy asked, running two fingers down the shiny black head.

“Do you understand me, my hawk Lord?” he asked. The bird blinked slowly. “You know, it was my favourite thing for dinner – hawk. I’ve eaten _thousands_ of them. I used to kill one every night.” A snort escaped him, and he laughed humourlessly. “Serves me right for getting involved in this nightmare.”

He glanced at the pouring rain outside, then at the soft fire from the torches. “Nightmare? _Day_ mare...”

With as much care as he could muster with his half-freezing hands and the hunger that gnawed at his stomach, the boy let the hawk move to perch on a wooden pillar, right next to Goliath’s head. He figured Spock would be pleased to see the horse – everyone seemed to like it, for reasons the little thief could not fathom.

“And then _a night without day, a day without night_... What’s that supposed to mean?” He crossed his arms, made a pause as if expecting the cursed Vulcan to answer.

“Makes about as much sense as the rest of it.”

The bird clipped his beak twice, then fluttered his ink-like wings restlessly.

“Oh – oh! The sun sets.” Pavel hurried away, silently dreading the idea of stepping into the deluge but seeing no other option. “I’ll wait outside.”

Then, just as he was about to go, a marvellous idea struck him, and he held out a hand. “Hold on for a minute!” he said, before disappearing out the door.

He ran under the downpour as fast as he could, racing against a sun he could not see, till he reached the back of the inn he was supposed to be staying at. There he found an unsupervised wagon, and lifted the heavy blanket covering it to discover a wide collection of riches. He dug in until he pulled out some dry clothes, hid them beneath his own shirt and took flight again.

“I can’t vouch for the fit,” he told the hawk as he hung an emerald tunic on Goliath’s saddle. “Take your time, my lord.”

He slipped outside, taking shelter against the polished wall, and changed quickly, teeth chattering from the cold. As he hugged himself for warmth, he watched the clouds darken, and waited for the sky to bleed black before he knocked on the door.

“Sir? My lord? I’m coming in!”

Spock was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, curling a fresh bandage around his chest. As soon as he noticed the boy watching him, he stood and rapidly covered himself.

“Sir? It’s me, remember?” Pavel hesitantly said.

The Vulcan nodded, barely smiling at the skittish boy. He smoothed a hand down the clean velvet of his robe. It was a little large for him, but he appreciated the gesture. “You?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

Trying to put the human child at ease, Spock stepped back, leaning against a pillar; he was satisfied to notice his wound had almost entirely healed, and did not cause him pain anymore. He saw the Captain’s cloak neatly folded over a three-legged stool and bent to collect it. “How is he?”

Chekov did not need to ask to whom he was referring to. “He’s alive, like you,” he said promptly. He had clearly been expecting that question, and had an answer at the ready: “He’s full of hope, like you. He left you in my charge.”

Up went the Vulcan’s eyebrow at that. It was highly improbable that Jim had thought such a youngling capable of offering him protection. Company, for certain, but _protection_?

The boy went on undeterred. He seemed to have relaxed a little, and was walking slowly towards him. “He said, _Tell him that we speak as one, and he will follow your instructions as my own_.”

“Indeed?” Amusement filtered through Spock’s expression. As if he’d ever followed any of Jim’s instructions. When the Mouse raised his hand to cross his heart, the Vulcan shook his head quickly. “No, do not swear,” he advised.

Pavel laughed lightly, following him when he went to greet the mighty stallion.

The half-blood combed his fingers through the horse’s mane, then stroked its quivering nose. “Good evening, Goliath,” he whispered into its ear, letting the beast bump its heavy head against his unhurt shoulder and neck. He contemplated the beautiful, shiny coat for a moment. “He’s taking us back to Aquila, isn’t he?”

After the child had nodded his assent, the Vulcan returned to him. It looked as if the little boy was struggling to find words, and Spock decided it was best to change the subject: it must not be easy for such a young mind to wrap around the horror of the curse that bound him to his t’hy’la.

“Well, what do you instruct?” he teased, bowing a little, eyes twinkling.

It took the Mouse some time to understand his meaning, but then a wide smile bloomed across his face. He spread out his hands in a flourish and bowed back. “I instruct you to sit by a warm fire...” he began, speaking slowly, solemnly, “To drink a cup of sweet wine... and to listen to bright music cheerfully played.” In the distance, someone was singing a ballad, and people clapped their hands in time with the flute’s lovely tune.

Pavel’s grin broadened as he grew bold. “Perhaps even dance. Shall we, my lord? Dance?”

Spock frowned. “Now?”

The boy shrugged. “Practice,” he said simply, and the Vulcan yielded to his joyful attitude, if only because he was putting so much effort in it. And they danced.

* * *

The moon shines bright above Aquila, and its rays brush over the trees and the sleeping flowers and the high columns, reaching to the very core of the immense cathedral, into its secret gardens. The silvery glow washes the earth, enveloping it in an aura of ethereal nostalgia that could make one believe in magic.

Inside the garden, the Captain of the guard holds his beloved close and whispers gentle words into the quiet. Their fingers entwine as they trace the steps of an ancient dance, moving in time with a remembered melody, and their foreheads touch.

There is tranquillity, and trust. The bond connecting their minds is strong and throws an open bridge between them, brimming with the warmth of their combined feelings. Jim raises a hand to press it softly against Spock’s cheek, and smiles as he watches his eyelids flutter closed.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, lips caressing soft pale skin. “The forest.”

The Vulcan smooths his palms down his t’hy’la’s back, pulling him tighter to himself; he leans his chin into the other’s shoulder, and there are no more spaces to separate them, nothing but this endless, comforting embrace. “I do not. It was never a home.”

Kirk hums low in his throat, drops a kiss into long velvety hair. “Would you like to travel, darling?”

“Travel to where?”

“I was thinking…” The Captain smiles again, brings the other’s hand to his mouth. “I would love for you to see the place where I was born and raised.”

Spock’s answering smile is barely there, but he knows Jim will see it for what it is. His fingers spread to arrange in the position of a meld, and he revels in the contact, in the steady flow of thoughts and emotions teasing his receptive skin. “I would be honoured,” he says simply.

“Then I’ll make arrangements to leave in a month.”

Kirk kisses his hair again, breathes in it. The Vulcan shifts a little in his hold to touch their lips together, a shy, fleeting gesture. “Yes,” he murmurs. “It would be agreeable.”

The human laughs, a rich, cascading sound, and suddenly they’re spinning again; Spock lets himself be swept around, naked feet flying over the lush green grass, and basks in the affection enveloping him. His present narrows down to the brightness of Jim’s eyes, the beauty of his soul that they can hardly conceal; he is content. Happy.

Lost in the overwhelming reality of their shared moment, neither Captain nor Vulcan notices the pale, ravenous gaze fixed on them from above, nor the glint of golden-laced robes washed silver by the moonlight. They do not notice the lined face turn livid in envy and unsatisfied greed. Instead, they keep on dancing until the first rays of sun come out to turn the sky pink.

* * *

Spock broke out of the memory as suddenly as he had fallen into its grasp; and its warmth was torn from him as the arrow had been torn from his chest – it hurt just as much, if not more. The bond pulsed uselessly within his broken mind, seeking a completion that could only be denied.

He slipped away from Pavel’s tentative hold and leaned against the wooden wall, breathing in the pungent smells of the stables and comparing them with the sweetness of the gardens of Aquila, late at night when the fireflies flew.

“I’ll have my cup of sweet wine now,” he said, trying to will away his grief so as not to disturb the boy.

The Mouse went to fetch the Captain’s sword and hoisted it with some difficulty, holding it tight against his chest.

“So, you intend to by my protector as well. I am flattered.” Spock’s tone was teasing. He wrapped Jim’s cloak around himself, hiding his alien appearance beneath the soft fabric.

Pavel looked up at him with a rueful smile. “Actually, the truth is, he’ll kill me if I lose it,” he confessed, shrugging a little. He pushed the door open and indicated the Vulcan should go first. “I had to steal your dress.”

“You _stole_ my dress?” Spock repeated. He was uncertain whether to feel outraged or amused – after all, the tunic was quite expensive, and the humans who could afford it would not miss it too dearly.

Before the child could reply, maybe deny that such a theft had occurred, the Vulcan froze in his tracks, unheeding of the heavy rain pouring above him. An iron grasp had seized his heart and squeezed it mercilessly, and his breath was cut short by the sight before him.

A man, and next to him a pair of mules. A man, whose hands were adorned with splotches of dark red blood and whose smile of pointed teeth was as feral as that of the beasts he hunted. A pair of mules, weighted down by their charge – a charge of two dozens wolf skins, wet and lustrous and shining silver under the water that drenched them.

Thunder roared around them and the trees creaked ominously.

A low growl began to form deep in Spock’s throat, and his eyes flashed as his instincts reared up and took the lead – for this wolf hunter had come to challenge the claim he held on his t’hy’la, and the Vulcan would fight him to the death and leave him to rot as a warning for the rest.

He whirled around and flew back into the stables.

Behind him, the young human had yet to understand – could not follow the leaps anguish was leading Spock’s mind to make – and he called him twice by his name.

The hunter’s face brightened with sinister light. “Spock? _Spock_...”

Raising the sword before him, the Mouse screamed, trying to look bigger than he was. “If you lay one hand on him, you will find it on the ground next to your head!” He hoped the shaking in his arms wasn’t too noticeable. “Now, ride on!”

“Easy, little man, you’re frightening me.”

“Are you deaf?! Ride on! Turn around, and you’re dead!”

It was only when the hunter had finished leering at him and had turned on his tracks that the boy let the sword fall to dig a hole in the mud. “What a terrible night.”

He had barely time to turn around and heave a relieved sigh… and then Spock dashed past him, riding Goliath deep into the forest with clear and murderous intent.

“Spock!” The Mouse huffed, already resigned to his fate. “Sp... Spock!” If anything were to happen to that Vulcan… “ _He’ll kill me_.”

* * *

Chilling water had his hair plastered to his face and neck, and the tunic he wore, now drenched, weighed uncomfortably over his shoulders, but Spock couldn’t find it in him to mind, he could only run, run, run as fast as his legs would allow.

Were he to be too late…

But he should not focus on that. He could not. He could not think that his _t’hy’la_ might die, might _already_ be dead, and there was no way for him to know for sure, no way because the bond between them had snapped the moment the curse had been woven…

And there was only silence in his mind, silence and pain and fear.

In the distance, he heard a whimper, the sickening sound of metal closing over frail bones. His heart stopped for a moment. _Jim… Jim!_ For all that it was useless, he pushed at the frayed ends of the broken link, stretching it forth as if it had the power to stop what could happen, what _was_ happening.

He walked on tiptoes now, forced into a slow and careful pacing by the beartraps littering the undergrowth; he could barely make out their jagged ends jutting amidst the leaves and twigs, the dried blood they were encrusted with.

“Show yourself, coward!” he growled, listening as the whines faded away with the animal’s life, listening as the hunter muttered nonsensical things to its corpse, listening…

A broken hiss escaped him as his breath was knocked out of him.

The human had jumped back at the sight of his wrath, letting the dead wolf fall into the earth, letting its golden fur grow dirty and dull from the rain and mud staining it. And Spock… Spock could only stare and try to wrap his mind around the fact that the Bishop had won.

That he had destroyed them.

That Jim was dead.

But if Jim was dead, then why wasn’t he, too? Why was Spock – how could it be that he was spared his bondmate’s fate? How could it be that he was to survive, survive with the knowledge that he was the cause of everything, that all the grief and suffering and the paralysing agony that had seized him were of his doing, that he deserved them for what he had done to his beloved?

That he deserved to endure this torture for the rest of his life, because he had recognised the signs of danger and ignored them so he could keep close to Jim for a day more, a week more, a month…

And now Jim was dead, and Spock should have known better.

The hunter watched him like one who wasn’t certain whether to fight or flee; he had bared his crooked teeth in what could barely pass as a smile, and squeezed a small knife in his bloodied hands. The Vulcan wondered if he should just let him kill him, or if the man had been instructed not to do him harm. The Bishop would certainly desire to have him as his own, would he not?

Before he could make a decision, before he could do anything other than take a step forward as if to claim the body of his beloved – cursed even in death, how cruel, how _human_ – a snarl rent the air, louder than the rain beating down on them, louder than the thunder.

_Life_ poured through Spock as he whirled around, and, oh, had there ever been a force stronger than hope in that wretched, wretched world?

“ _T’hy’la_ …”

He had no voice – relief had stolen it from him, relief and love as he welcomed the golden creature running at him, met his eyes of molten sun…

Behind him, the hunter had risen fully. “A yellow wolf,” he said, walking forth, towards them. “The yellow wolf.”

The Vulcan had one hand wrapped around his neck before he could so much as whisper another word. “You will not touch him,” he snapped, pushing him backwards until he crashed against the wide trunk of the nearest tree. Leaves cascaded around them as the human struggled.

“You will die for this.”

Looking into the hunter’s horrified expression – at his wide pupils that bore his reflection, the image of ferocity – Spock pulled out the silver dagger that had belonged to Jim before they met. And then, in a clean, precise motion, he slit the human’s throat.

He let him fall there to bleed, not even sparing the time to watch as life abandoned him. He wasn’t worth it anyway.

Instead, he cleansed his blade into the leaves and stepped slowly to where the wolf was still waiting for him. With a long, liberating sigh, the Vulcan fell to his knees before the transfigured form of his bondmate. The creature sniffed his forehead and hair, then, with the gentleness of all tamed things, laid his massive head over his shoulder.

As he encircled the wolf’s neck with both arms and held on tight, Spock closed his eyes and smiled. It was unbearably sad, but no one would see it.

The rain fell upon them and washed away the tears he did not care to contain anymore. And so the night passed.

* * *

Pavel awoke to the delectable scent of roasting fish, and found he was laying on a pine branch that someone was dragging over the grass.

“Good morning,” Captain Kirk said with a smile, pulling away so he could tend to the fire. He had collected a few apples and had them piled neatly on a square of rough cloth.

“You look a little pale,” he went on, carefully lifting two fish from the flames and setting them on a bed of leaves. “I got you something to eat.”

Wincing from the sudden pain in his spine, the boy sat up and crossed his legs. “What a night...” he huffed to himself. He’d spent half of it wandering through the woods looking for the Vulcan, only to find him asleep, the golden wolf curled around him and the corpse of the hunter nearby.

“What happened?” Kirk asked, frowning a little as he made to settle on the grass. The wind blew cold around them, whipping angrily at the black fabric of his cloak.

The Mouse was quick to reply: “Oh, nothing I couldn’t handle, Captain.”

He couldn’t risk telling him the truth, but he wouldn’t dare lie, either – he couldn’t know for certain that he and Spock did not speak. Surely they wrote to each other? It would have been foolish of him to just assume the Vulcan wouldn’t share their misadventure with his lover.

The Captain quirked an eyebrow at him in a gesture that was eerily similar to Spock’s mannerism; it looked as though he wished to question him further, but then the screeching call of a hawk pierced the air, and he turned, ready to welcome the bird.

But the little vulture flew past his head and went to land on the boy’s arm… And too late did Pavel remember that he still wore the sturdy rugs that were the hawk’s perch. Kirk narrowed his eyes at him.

“It’s a good little hawk, nice bird.” Sensing danger, the Mouse began to blabber nervously as he tried to coax the beast into returning to his rightful owner. “Go on now, go to your master… Go on, my Lord.”

“Last night...” Kirk began slowly, cocking his head to the side.

“Captain?”

“Tell me about it.”

“What’s to tell?” Again, Pavel waved his arm a little, hoping the hawk would take flight. “Go on now, go on, go...” he cajoled, to no avail. “We ran in a bit of trouble on the way to an inn.”

The Captain balked at this. “You took _Spock_ to an inn?”

“First we had to go to a stable,” the Mouse said quickly, feeling as if he was worsening his situation with every word that left his mouth. “Fly to your master, fly to the one you love.”

Kirk took a step forward. His hazel eyes had hardened in a mixture of concern and suspicion. “What did you do in a stable?”

“We changed clothes.”

“ _What_?”

“Not together, of course!”

“Did you leave him alone?” The Captain was livid now. His tone had fallen to become deadly quiet.

“No!” Pavel screamed.

“So you did change together…!”

“No, no, no!” The boy closed the space between them and slipped out of the bundle of rags over which the hawk was still perched, dumping them both on Kirk’s waiting arms. “Take him, take him.”

For a moment, they were silent: the bird had scurried all the way up to the Captain’s shoulder and was now delicately biting his chin. The Mouse looked at the pain in the soldier’s eyes, at the barely-concealed longing that lent them a strange brightness. He cleared his throat, scratched at his head.

“He is the most wonderful creature that ever lived...” he murmured, staring at the hawk as he ruffled his velvety feathers. “And I can’t say he hasn’t charmed me, but the truth is, all he did was talk about you.”

Kirk sighed then, brushing a finger down the bird’s form. “Every moment you spend with him... I envy you,” he said bluntly, meeting the boy’s hesitant gaze with a burning one of his own. “But you can tell me,” he added, perking up a little at the thought. “Tell me everything he said.”

The Mouse swallowed, nodded, sat back down in front of the dying fire.

“And I warn you, I will know if the words are his.”

“He was sad at first,” Pavel told him quietly, wrapping both arms around his legs as he tried to sum up all the things Spock had let slip in the past few nights. “He talked about the day you met, and he cursed it.”

At that, the Captain visibly winced. He dropped his gaze to the ground, resigned, as if he’d been expecting such a thing, as if he believed that, after all, it was only natural the Vulcan should resent the man who had brought him back into a world of humans…

“But then... I saw him remember how happy you were together... before the Bishop’s curse.” The Mouse paused for a moment, searching for the right words, or perhaps enjoying the tentative hope on Kirk’s face. “And his eyes glowed. No, _he_ glowed. He loves you more than life, Captain. He’s had to.”

Fluttering his wings a little, the bird settled more comfortably in the crook of the Captain’s arm, and he cradled him closer, staring off into the distance, into the sun that had drawn a halo around him. “Did you know that hawks and wolves mate for life?” he said out of the blue. “The Bishop didn’t even leave us that. Not even that.”

Pavel did not reply.

* * *

They are married in secret, at night, in the cathedral of Aquila. The moon shines through the stained glass, its rays spilling beautifully over the mosaic that stretches across the floor.

Jim and Spock stand proudly by the altar, hands joined and smiling gently as they look into each other’s eyes. There’s a sense of tranquillity, of peace, a warmth that seems to envelop them, wrapping them up in a world entirely of their own, where worries melt and colours merge and happiness is all they need.

Between them, Leonard guides them slowly though their vows; his voice is trembling finely, and he doesn’t even attempt to contain the emotion that enrichens it. “Will you have this Vulcan to your husband, and love him and keep him, in sickness and in health, and in all other degrees be to him as a husband should be to his beloved, and all others forsake for him, and hold only to him to your life’s end?”

The Captain beams, golden in his strength and love, and Spock listens, mesmerised, as he utters the words that will tie them together, turn their lives into one. “I, James Tiberius Kirk, take thee, Spock of the House of Surak, for my wedded husband,” he says, in a whisper because they cannot be heard, but no less powerful for it. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart.”

Slowly, with a marvelling kind of awe, he reaches out to place his right hand against the Vulcan’s cheek, stroking it as one would a cherished thing. “According to God’s holy ordinance. And from here on I plight you my spouse.”

Spock closes his eyes for a blissful moment, absorbing the truth of his promise.

Bones offers him a smile when he turns to him. His blue eyes shine in welcome – one the Vulcan had never dreamed he would receive, and yet… Jim’s friends have been nothing but gracious to him, and now that they are gathered around the three of them into the little church, they look nothing if not delighted by the union.

Unexpected. Unexplainable.

“Will you have this man as your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?” Leonard asks the Vulcan, and it’s final, it’s real. “Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others keep yourself only to him, so long as you both shall live?”

Spock steps forward, then, barely touching his hands to Jim’s, delicate as a butterfly’s fluttering wings. “I, Spock of the House of Surak, take you, James Tiberius Kirk, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold…” He intertwines their fingers, bringing the human closer. The light shining in his hazel eyes speaks of home, and the Vulcan bows his head.

“From this day forward.” The words have a dreamy ring to them, like they’re torn from another’s life, like they shouldn’t be _his_. “For better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.” This he can promise, he would promise regardless of the outcome. “To love and to cherish, till death us do part…”

He takes a deep breath, and when he releases it, he is free. The fear, the binds, the past that had been holding him prisoner vanish as soon as he meets his _ashayam_ ’s loving eyes, and he completes his vow with newfound confidence. “And from this day forward, I plight you my spouse.”

Jim laughs a little before they finally kiss – an electric brush of lips against lips and the human’s comforting hold wrapped around him – and then there’s quiet cheering, and there’s Nyota embracing them both, and Hikaru clapping his hands as Scotty keeps patting the Captain’s back, and the night is fresh and smells like flowers and spring and rebirth, and as Leonard pronounces them married at last, everything falls into place.

It is a week after that the Bishop discovers them.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Bones finally caught up with them. He jumped down from his saddle with a little difficulty, and huffily went to plant himself in front of the Captain, with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face. “On your way to kill His Grace?” he asked.

Kirk did not even pretend not to have caught the disapproval in his tone, but he merely shrugged into his black cloak and turned his back on the monk. Pavel bit his lower lip, frightened by the darkness that was quickly taking over his expression.

“Why won’t you listen to me?” Leonard pressed, walking around him – as if he did not see the danger in such an action, as if the Captain’s demeanour wasn’t already that of a cornered predator – and reached out as if to grasp him by his shoulders.

“In two days’ time you can face the Bishop in the cathedral with Spock by your side...” the monk stubbornly repeated. He didn’t seem to care that Jim’s eyes had taken on the colour of fire, or that his hands were balled into tight fists. “And break the curse!”

A gust of freezing wind swept the forest, carrying with it the scent of incoming snow. The Mouse shivered in his ragged clothes, wishing the ones he had stolen the night before were dry enough that he could wear them. He startled when Kirk finally snapped.

“I _will be_ in Aquila tomorrow,” he said, raising his voice just enough that the hawk on his shoulder gave a warning screech, perhaps sensing his growing anger. “And in one way or another, there will finally be an end to it.”

“One day more or less, what can it matter?”

When the Captain’s steely gaze fell on him, Pavel wondered what had possessed him to open his mouth and contradict him. The hawk’s yellow eyes were wild, his wings flapping, and the Mouse couldn’t help but think of the frenzied look of pure terror the Vulcan had painted on his face when he believed the golden wolf had been killed.

It wasn’t fair, living like this…

“You too?” Jim hissed, “I warned you.” He snatched Goliath’s reins from the boy and mounted swiftly, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. “Stay here then with the old man.”

Alarmed, Chekov ran to him, as if he could stop him somehow. “No, I’m going with you. How can you get inside the cathedral without me?”

The Captain shook his head. “I will get in without your help.”

He spurred the horse on and disappeared without another word. Pavel sighed as he watched him go, wondering about his future, Spock’s future. He didn’t move when the monk went to stand beside him, nor when he squeezed his arm.

“Thank you for trying, Pavel, and for standing up for the truth,” Leonard said wearily.

“I should have known better…” the Mouse replied, swallowing around the bitter taste in his mouth. “Every happy moment in my life has come from lying.”

After a few minutes of silence, they set about following Kirk.

* * *

Snow had fallen throughout the evening into the night, but it had yet to settle in the deepest areas of the forest. As he rummaged into the dry undergrowth, Spock was grateful for it: the heavy clothes Jim had left for him couldn’t seem to keep him warm enough – not even the Captain’s cloak, wrapped securely around him in the ghost of the embrace that once was, could banish the chills entirely.

The sound of footsteps behind him alerted him of the fact that someone was approaching, and the Vulcan straightened abruptly, ready now more than ever for a fight. But it was only Pavel, wearing the too-large clothes he had stolen the previous night.

“There you are, little Mouse,” Spock murmured as a manner of greeting, then returned to sinking his hands into the crunching leaves and rotting twigs, turning them around and about in his search. “Where is my _knife_?”

His mind was pounding. The curse made it impossible for him to even try and heal the bond that bled into his consciousness: every twilight, every dawn, it flickered back to life for the briefest of seconds, only to break again and again and again as their transformations took place.

Jim had come to feel this too – a testament to how weakened the Vulcan was, that he could not shield his t’hy’la from the pain anymore.

“Spock?” Pavel asked tentatively from behind.

They wrote to each other, he and the Captain, sharing what they were forbidden to in person, sharing love and despair and senseless hope in equal measure, sharing the illusion of an existence spent together… He had not found the time to compose a letter in more than a week, and he wished to, he really did, but he was holding back for some reason.

He would have much preferred to have happy things to write about. Pleasant things, things that would reassure Jim, comfort him through the days Spock was banished from.

“I just had it, now what have I done with it?” he muttered to himself, frustrated that he had managed to lose his t’hy’la’s gift that he had given him the night of their bonding.

“Spock, this may be our last evening together.”

Somehow, the human’s words cut through him, and he turned, looking up at the boy in mild surprise. “Why is that?”

“I didn’t want to tell you until I believed,” Pavel said, cocking his head to the side. His eyes were shining. “I mean, _really_ believed.”

“Really believed what, Pavel?” sighed the Vulcan, tired of wordplays, tired of mysteries, tired, just tired.

“I think we can break the curse. We have a plan.”

Spock allowed himself a short second to compose his expression into one of mere curiosity. He would not stand for the quickening of his heartbeat or the flare of expectations in his mind, he would not stand for the relief that threatened to take over him. “You and Jim?” he warily asked, wanting to be sure.

“No.”

The Mouse gestured to his right, and there Leonard appeared, looking as unkept as ever in his winter attire. His lined face showed signs of fatigue, but his gaze was as piercing as ever, and a small smile curved his lips.

For some time, Spock simply considered him.

And then, because he had nothing else to lose, because the pain in his mind was shattering his controls slowly and inexorably, because the scent of Jim that enveloped him from the soft fabric of his cloak was making his heart bleed too, because he would prefer any plan to this idle infinite waiting of his, he decided to trust him.

“Very well. I shall listen.”

* * *

“Must you keep punching me in the liver?!” Leonard’s rough voice filled the air, piercing the stillness of the snowy night.

Spock turned to him, watching distractedly as the monk and the boy fought for room in the trap they were digging, not without difficulty, in the hardened soil. It looked as though they couldn’t help getting in each other’s way, and the Vulcan briefly considered offering an assistance they had trice refused.

Sighing a little, he went back to listening for his t’hy’la’s arrival.

“Leonard... this hole isn’t big enough for the two of us.” The Mouse was spluttering, as if he had fallen face-first into the dirt. How could humans be so graceless?

“Well, let’s hope it’s big enough for the wolf.”

Leonard’s reply did have some merit, but Spock was beginning to doubt they would ever manage to catch him. It was only four and a half hours till dawn… But they could not afford to wait for the following night. Standing by the shore of a frozen river, he counted the minutes they had left and somehow found the courage to hope.

Behind him, the monk had toppled over, probably because Pavel had tripped him on his way out. “Ah! What are you doing?!”

“When you kneel before the altar, how do you get up again?”

Up went Spock’s eyebrow at that, and his mouth curved a little. Not even he had ever dared sassing Leonard quite that much.

“You sacrilegious young imp!” The monk’s voice was full of dangerous rage, but the Vulcan could feel he was growing fond of the boy.  “You... Push, blast yah! Come on, again! And again!”

Just then, the golden figure of the mighty wolf appeared on the other edge of the river, in stark contrast with the dark silhouettes of the naked trees. As soon as he saw him, he started racing towards Spock. “He is coming,” the Vulcan announced, watching with silent trepidation as the cursed creature ventured over the slippery ice.

Pavel scrambled out of the jagged hole. “My lord, my lord! We are just covering the trap.”

“Very well, but you must make haste. He is crossing the river.”

The sky had cleared and moonlight danced around them, catching fire on the wolf’s lush mane, painting the river silver… It was, truly, a mesmerising view. Spock opened his arms to welcome his beloved.

But the ice cracked. Spock gasped as he saw the wolf stumble and wail, as he saw him dig vainly for purchase on the smooth mirror that was the frozen water, as he saw it cave beneath him, swallow him in a flurry of lather and waves.

_Jim!_

Without thinking twice about the consequences of his actions, the Vulcan hurried towards the centre of the river. He did not hear the snaps and pops of the failing ice, he did not hear the humans scream at him to stop, he did not hear the growl of the deadly billows waiting to grasp him.

The only thing that mattered was saving Jim.

Unheeding of the cold, he lay on the quivering surface, stretched towards the gaping hole against which the wolf was struggling. He reached for him, trying to grasp his wet fur, pulling his flailing legs to him, but it was to no avail, he kept slipping, and the water was freezing Spock’s fingers, stealing his strength…

They would fall, both of them…

“Pavel, help me!”

The Mouse was stepping carefully towards him. “Hold on, my lord!”

Leonard joined the child in the endeavour, but oh, why were they so slow, didn’t they know Jim’s life was at stake, didn’t they know what it would mean to lose him, didn’t they know that he was worth an entire world?

“The ice will break, lie down, lie down!”             

Spock encircled the wolf’s torso with both arms, and felt the pull of gravity, felt the water lap at his neck and chin, felt sharp claws dig into his shoulders. Despair seized him, and he fought it valiantly, needing to keep his head about him. “He cannot get out!”

“Wait!” Pavel begged from behind, “Wait, my lord!”

Wait? There was no time for waiting, Jim was slipping away from him and the Vulcan tightened his grip, but his fingers had become completely numb and unresponsive, and the wolf’s barks and growls were fading…

“I can’t...” Spock cried, “I can’t keep him!”

“We’re coming,” came Leonard’s reassuring murmur.                

But the Vulcan would not be reassured, his t’hy’la’s animal eyes were wild, frenzied, terrified… “Hurry, we’ll lose him!”

Pavel’s arms slid beneath Spock’s, and the boy took hold of the falling wolf. “He’s heavy!” he gasped, breath already short.

The monk was wrapping a thin rope around them both, and the metallic hiss of a sword digging deep into the ice alerted the telepath that they were slightly more secure… but Jim was not, he was not, he was not. “He’s slipping…”

“Hold him! Be careful!” the Mouse screamed. Caught in the wolf’s unpredictable trashing, the child was dragged into the waters, and Spock relinquished his grasp on his t’hy’la to clutch at one of the human’s wrists.

“Pavel!”

From beneath, Chekov caught the animal’s hind legs, trying to heave him upwards. “Push, push, push!”

As he pulled the quivering wolf to himself, the Vulcan smelled blood – blood drawn on the boy’s chest and his own arms and shoulders. Leonard threw himself down beside him, grabbing the beast by the scruff, and finally, between the three of them, they managed to free him from the water.

The whimpering wolf curled its enormous body in Spock’s lap, and the Vulcan bent down to gather him closer, nearly folding himself in a half in his haste to comfort him. “All is well, _ashaya_ , all his well…”

“Hold on! Hold on, hold on, boy!” The monk pulled a badly shivering Pavel from the ice, and they both crashed down, panting, teeth chattering.

Spock took off the Captain’s heavy cloak and wrapped it around the humans, then pressed his forehead into the wolf’s neck. “We must live, father. As people,” he whispered brokenly. “Our lives are in your hands now.”

* * *

Inside the hole, Spock laid in silence. Trailing his fingers slowly through his t’hy’la’s soft fur, he waited for dawn to come and rip his pain away. The wolf was docile, sleepy, his breaths a rhythmic lullaby that threatened to drag the Vulcan into much-needed sleep. But he wished to stay awake, that he might catch a glimpse of the Captain as he returned to his human nature…

It had happed before, a few times, when they had found themselves together as the light changed.

Everything was still around them, even the wind was at rest, and as the sky faded to grey, Spock watched the stars die one by one – how perfect their existence had to be, as mute spectators of the cold eternity of the universe.

And then – a drop of golden. Spock could see the rays of the approaching sun brush over his knuckles if he bent them just so, and knew the time was coming. He propped himself up on his elbow and waited eagerly for the day to bring his beloved back.

From head to tail the wolf shuddered, bathed in warm, yellow light, and slowly his figure began to fade. The Vulcan held his breath, feeling the threads in his mind shine with renewed life, the barest hint of his t’hy’la’s consciousness, coming to…

Perhaps he might shed a tear.

And the Captain was lying before him, half-covered by his cloak, naked skin burning golden and hair aflame; Spock blinked, trembled, let out the tiniest cry, and his controls snapped when the human turned to him and he watched the eyes of the wolf morph into those of his bondmate, so full of wonder and love and disbelief, so beautiful and familiar.

_T’hy’la…_

_Spock!_

Awareness fell back upon Jim all of a sudden, with the whispered Vulcan word that made its way into his mind. His lips parted in voiceless amazement at the sight of his husband, his Spock, his beloved, so close to him, the suggestion of a smile on his pale face and eyes that poured out feelings along with the one tear he had allowed.

He reached out his hand to touch him. He had to. The pungent cold of the snow surrounding them enveloped him, but Kirk barely noticed the discomfort it brought, because the Vulcan was reaching back, and his fingers shook as they almost brushed together…

Sunlight encircled Spock in an almost-magical halo, like it had in the Forest of Broceliande, like it should have those past two years, and the bond between them was already preparing to be rent apart.

_Ashayam, please…_

The Vulcan’s brown eyes – wild with sorrow and the knowledge of what was happening – melted into a pool of amber.

_Spock – no – Spock!_

They would touch, they must touch, he was so near, his breath cool over the human’s face, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he fought to keep his consciousness…

_Spock!_

A flutter of ebony wings, a screech, and the Vulcan was no more. The hawk rose from ground and soared into the sky, forever out of reach.

And Jim was left with nothing but his empty cloak and an outstretched hand. He’d tried to hold his beloved back and embraced the freezing snow… For a moment he contemplated simply lying there till death claimed him.

He threw his head back and screamed his rage towards the rising sun, that had taken his Spock from him. He received no answer but distant silence.

* * *

Leonard and Pavel sat by the fire, watching the Captain pace restlessly about the two horses tied together by the monk’s cart. Finally, the soldier walked to them, looking for all the world as if he was contemplating murder.

“Tell me one thing,” he began in a thunderous yet carefully-measured tone. “Where is my father’s sword?”

“It’s gone,” Pavel lied, keeping a straight face as he looked up at him. “It fell through the ice last night, crossing the river.”

“Damn you!” Kirk growled, eyes going steely as he took a menacing step towards the boy. “That sword was the last bit of honour I possessed!”

Before the Mouse could say anything, Leonard jumped to his feet and crowded into the Captain’s personal space. “There is no mission of honour now!” he said in a passionate whisper, deadly serious and this time determined not to let up. “The jewel you wished to place in the sword has become nothing but the symbol of your meaningless death!”

Jim shook his head wildly.

“But there is a chance for life now, a new life with _him_!” Pavel cried, trying to make him see reason – see hope and possibilities. “Why can’t you believe? Spock does!”

Kirk rounded on him again: “I needed that sword to kill the Bishop!”

“Jim, listen to him!” The monk caught his friend by the arm, willing him to still, but it was like attempting to contain a fire with bare hands.

“Damn you both!”

Anger and frustration and pain from the broken bond he could feel bleed in the back of his mind piled up in a jumble, and Jim knew not how to restrain himself. Did they not understand there was no chance? Did they not see that they were being heartless, promising Spock a future when there was none, did they not see how futile any attempt at escaping the curse would be?

He grabbed the monk by the front of his clothes, shaking him forcefully. Leonard glanced at him with his piercing blue eyes, not at all impressed with that display of naked strength. “Go ahead, kill yourself, kill Spock too!” he told him, just to see if he could goad him into acknowledging the foolishness of his stubborn refusals. “You never cared about him as much as yourself anyway!”

Jim went cold with sheer outrage. He snapped his hands forward, sending the monk to crash into the little thief. Pavel winced and fell to the ground, clutching at his opened shirt. Deep scratches covered his thin chest, tracing jagged paths out of barely-dried blood. Kirk’s fury evaporated as soon as he laid eyes on them.

“What is that?” he asked.

Leonard gave him a look of supreme displeasure. “It happened last night, when he saved your life!”

Of course, the Captain remembered nothing. But he knew they must have crossed the river somehow… a highly dangerous endeavour with a fierce wolf on the run. “Forgive me,” he murmured, holding out his hand so he could help the boy to his feet. He wrapped him up in an embrace, hoping it would be enough to convey his gratitude.  

He smiled at Bones. If it mattered that much to them all, he would wait another day. He had waited two whole years to exact his vengeance, and a handful of hours would not hurt, not anymore. He caved, and decided to stick to their ridiculous plan. After all, once it failed, Jim would still be more than able to destroy the Bishop.

“I’ll show you idiots how to cage a wolf.”

* * *

That night, Leonard drove his cart inside Aquila. Beside him, cloaked and silent, sat Spock. The orange lights of the many fires lit all around them bathed the world in strange, eerie shadows, and the sound of clapping hooves fell ominous into the quiet.

They passed by the river and onto the stone pavement that encircled the cathedral, and there they stopped. “Remember, the groove inside the north wall,” the monk hissed, barely moving his mouth so as not to be seen.

“All right, the groove inside the north wall...” From beneath the cart slipped out Pavel, noiseless as a mouse; he slid away, lowering himself into the water, and left the others to go on.

He heard the guard order the gates open and smiled a little in victory. Then he turned away and began to swim.

“We have come a full circle, Lord,” he said out loud as he navigated the ink-like river. “I would like to think there is some higher meaning in all of this. It certainly would reflect well on you.”

* * *

The cart made it to the innermost doors before it was stopped by a soldier in full armour.

“Hold! What have we here, holy father?” he asked, circling the pitiful wagon in search for potential threats.

Leonard cleared his throat and smiled congenially. “A surprise gift, my son, to His Grace the Bishop, from... From the people of my parish.”

The man threw back the wide rug that obscured nearly the entirety of the cart, revealing a cage, and inside a golden wolf. His fangs snapped against the wood restraining him, and his eyes flashed. “A fine pelt for his wall,” the monk explained.             

Pursing his lips a little, the soldier drew away from the animal and returned to the front of the wagon. “And what have we here?” he mused, reaching out to take off Spock’s hood without waiting for an answer. Thankfully, the Vulcan’s hair was long enough that it covered both his ears and his eyebrows, and so the human saw nothing but a handsome young man whose skin looked vaguely sickly.

But as soon as he touched Spock, the wolf let out a loud snarl, pressing his muzzle into the spaces between the bars, clearly dying to rip the soldier’s throat out. Fed up and perhaps challenged, the man unsheathed his sword.

“I’ve never had the pleasure of killing a wolf before.”

Leonard saw Spock’s eyes widen dangerously, his fingers wrap around his silver dagger, and he knew that if the soldier so much as scratched the wolf’s skin, the Vulcan would murder him in not-so-cold blood.

“How strange, it’s exactly what the Bishop said,” he hurried to point out, hoping to salvage the situation somehow. “I’m sure he will understand you depriving him of that pleasure. He’s a very forgiving sort of man.”

The soldier swallowed visibly and stepped back. “Very well, pass on.”

As he spurred his horse on, the monk couldn’t resist teasing the man a little. “Wisdom is beyond price, my son,” he said in the condescending tone only clergymen could afford to use unpunished. “Be grateful that you have it.”

* * *

Daylight came, and with it, so did a black hawk and the Captain of the guard. Hidden in the shadows, the cart waited.

Leonard was looking at the sky, gauging the time. “It should be soon now, once the clouds break.”

Kirk shook his head and with a bitter smile he offered the bird a piece of raw meat. It was something he did not wish to dwell on – his vegetarian, son-of-nature husband being forced into that kind of diet.

“It’s day, old man,” he told the monk. “Like it was yesterday, like it will be tomorrow.”

They fell silent and listened to the choir rehearsing for the function the Bishop was due to perform. It was almost time.

* * *

Pavel had once again swum across the canal and down the sewers. Now he had returned to the place from where he had once attempted his escape – that grate which opened directly into the cathedral – and this time, he had to find a way in, despite all the people crowding above him, despite the fact that this was sacred land, and the Bishop was giving Mass.

Balancing himself on his feet and with his back, he hung meters above the water, with a tiny knife in his hands, trying to lift the grate off. He could hear the guards blocking the doors from the inside – the very ones he had to open in order to let the Captain in.

The procession had just begun filing in when a man went to stand directly above him, blocking his exit. “Oh, no... Damn,” the Mouse muttered under his breath. He stared at the soles of the shoes that stood between him and his mission, contemplating his next move.

Then he decided to put the knife to good use, and started pointing it into the leather. The man shook his foot once, then stilled again; Pavel repeated his actions, this time more insistently, and did not relent until the other jumped back with a cry of pain.

“What’s the matter?” he heard someone ask.

“Rats!”

A stick was lowered violently into the holes, forcing Chekov to flatten himself against the wall. “Rats? Here? Scandalous.”

Finally, they moved away from the grate, leaving the thief free to lift it. Blissfully unnoticed, he slipped inside the cathedral, went to steal one of the altar boys’ robes, which he wrapped around himself completely.

The doors were shut, the Bishop had reached the end of the central nave and was standing in front of his devoted, and the sun shone through the tinted glass. Time was running short, and Pavel, blending in with his new disguise, set about picking the church’s lock.

* * *

Kirk tied a sword to his waist, pacing restlessly about the cart. Then he went to stand by the hawk’s perch; they had hooded the bird so he would not attract attention to himself, and Jim stroke his wings slowly, tenderly. “It’s too late. The mass will be over soon,” he said, looking at Bones with sorrow in his eyes. “I can’t wait for you now. If Pavel has done his job, I can kill the Bishop now or never.”

Leonard grasped his arm, squeezed it tightly. “No, Jim, this chance will never come again!”

That gave him pause. For a long moment, the Captain merely stared at his friend, collecting his courage, collecting his past and his love so they would not be a hindrance to him. He reached into the cloak he wore and handed the monk Spock’s silver dagger. “You’re right,” he murmured. “If the service ends peacefully... the cathedral bells begin to toll... and you will know I have failed.”

He sighed. Leonard bent his head in imagined grief.

The hawk gave a little whimper, and the monk looked up again. “But Spock?” he asked, as if it would be enough to restrain Kirk.

And it was then that Jim let him see the full extent of the hurt he had hidden for two years – only then did he let him feel the weight of his guilt, of his anger, of his heartbreak and wretched love.

“I... beg you take his life...” he said, and his voice shattered, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Quick and painless.”

“I can’t do that!” Leonard protested at once, his whole body shaking with the strength of his refusal.

“Yes, you can! I beg you,” Kirk insisted. He drew the hawk to himself, against his chest. “The cruelty would be to damn him to a half-life like this… That is not what he wants.”

“I couldn’t do it,” the monk repeated, thinking of Spock, of his soulful eyes, of the aura of magic and sorrow he carried with himself. How could he harm so pure a creature?

“Have you ever considered,” Jim asked gently after a beat of stunned silence, “That maybe this is what God intended all along?

Leonard averted his eyes. No. He would not believe that.

* * *

With his helmet on only partway so it showed his face, Captain Kirk rode to the cathedral, to the main square that stretched between the two towers. The majority of the Bishop’s guard was gathered there, and no one moved as the black horse made his way among them.

“As the one who was once your Captain...” Kirk began with a clear voice, letting the sun wash upon him so everyone would recognise him. “And through God’s grace will be once again, I ask you to let me pass.”

A soldier fell out of the group, drawing his ride close to the Captain’s. Dark hair shone almost liquid, and a light smile graced his lips. “Captain Kirk...” he greeted warmly. “I have my orders.”

Unsheathing his sword, he brought it up and across his own chest, bowing a little. “You may pass, and with our best wishes that you succeed.”

Jim laid a hand upon his forearm, voice soft as he murmured: “Thank you, Hikaru.” Then he spurred Goliath on, towards the doors of the cathedral. They were still firmly shut.

_Pavel, where are you?_

* * *

“Come on, open!” the Mouse muttered to himself, fiddling with the far too many locks on the heavy mahogany doors. His thin knife tinkled against old iron, and he feared it might start to attract unwanted attention. The choir kept singing, but some people were turning towards him.

“Come on...”

He dared glance behind his shoulder and met the wide eyes of a dark-skinned soldier; she was approaching silently, expression unreadable as she moved fluidly within the chainmail that bound her. One gloved hand was on her sword.

“ _Come on_!”

Only one lock was left, and Pavel climbed over the door, reaching for the heavy latch so that he might lift it. He could hear a horse clashing hooves against stone, and he hoped it was the Captain…

The soldier was standing directly beneath him now. The Mouse braced himself for a blow that did not come, and he blinked in confusion as the woman gave him a gentle smirk and a little push. The doors fell open.

She pulled him away abruptly, just as Goliath burst through them.

Her voice was full of music and mirth. “Captain! At last!”

* * *

The crowd parted easily to let the Captain through.

Murmurs filled the quiet – the choir had finally stopped singing – and even the soldiers were taken aback, frozen at the sight of their former lead.

The Bishop stared, wide-eyed and seized by fear, at the imposing black-clad figure advancing towards him at a steady trot.

Sword drawn and gaze fixed, Kirk stopped by the altar, letting his horse rear up in front of his enemy – the cause of all his pain and disgrace, the man he was to kill…

For a moment, they merely looked at each other.

“Kirk!”

The scream had come from the other side of the cathedral, and the Captain turned to face his contestant with a glare that promised death. Ben Finney raced towards him on a white horse, a smirk on his face as he lowered his golden helmet.

Kirk growled softly between clenched teeth. He did not wish to waste his time with such scum – his traitor friend who had sold him and his Spock to the Bishop’s greed – but if he wanted to have a taste of his wrath… It seemed that the Captain had no choice but to oblige him.

Their swords clashed together violently, once, twice, once again, and they circled each other in the central nave. The Bishop watched them in silence, never moving. Finney’s horse fell, got back on its hooves; Kirk chased him across the cathedral, wanting this to be over, wanting the traitor to leave.

They had been such good friends, before. Before the promotion, before Spock. And now Ben was trying to kill him, and Jim was answering in kind; silvery metal flashed ominously as they dared lift it on holy ground, as they dared harbour murderous intents in the house of God.

But Kirk would have his vengeance.

Finney was thrown from his saddle by too hard a blow, and he rolled down, bracing his fall. He took off his helmet in anger, threw it at the Captain, who ducked just enough that it passed over his head, going to crash into the highest window.

The glass shrieked, shattered in a million pieces, and golden light washed over them.

It was the sun, unforgiving and inescapable.

Jim thought of his hawk and growled.

* * *

Pavel slipped out the open doors and into the morning light, rushing across the square and behind the stone buildings, back to the cart. His breath was short and he kept glancing at the sky, waiting for Leonard’s prodigy to unfold, because they had to be right, they had to be, this story needed to end and if the Bishop died at Kirk’s hand it would _not_.

But how, how could one even think to ask the Captain to spare the man that had taken his life and his love from him?

He knelt beside the wagon, underneath the now-empty cage, and dug into the layers of rugs and fabric until he met the hard surface of the heel of Kirk’s sword. They had hidden it there in the hopes of convincing the Captain to wait, but now it was about time it was returned.

“Oh, thank you, Lord,” Pavel sighed. If someone had stolen it he would have never forgiven himself.

* * *

Kirk punched Finney hard in the stomach, leaving him on the ground where he fell. Twisting around, he walked back to the Bishop, slowly, watching him carefully for any sign of fear or regret. But his face was empty – as if he’d been carved out of wax.

As he advanced, soldiers tried to block his path. Some he dismissed easily, waving his sword with single-minded intent, and some, he noticed with a surge of pleasure, Nyota and Scotty were taking down for him. It was great to know they had remained loyal to him after all those months of silence.

The cathedral was ringing with the sound of metal against metal and soldiers groaning and bodies falling. The Captain had only to take the few steps leading to the altar, and then he would have the Bishop at his mercy…

But Finney jumped on him, grabbed him by the legs, pushed him to the ground. Kirk kicked him away, pulled himself up into a sitting position as he caught his breath from the blow he had taken to his chest.

His eyes fell on the broken window, on the sky before him, and a gasp cut through his composure.

An eclipse.

He took off his helmet and hood so he could see it clearer, a black moon obscuring the sun, sliding over it, eating up its glare and muting the colours of the day to a mysterious grey tint.

“A night without a day...” he murmured, entranced. “And a day without a night...”

Leonard was right – he was right – but then – Spock would come – he would come – he had to…

For the first time since he’d laid eyes on the Captain, the Bishop moved. He stepped towards the altar, clutching at his staff with a white-knuckled grip, all blood leeched from his face by the recognition of the prodigy that was unfolding, the faulty loop in the chain of the curse…

Kirk took in his strain with deep satisfaction and, dare he think it, hope… Because at this point, it was justified, was it not?

But he had asked Leonard to take Spock’s life. Fear seized Jim as he contemplated his mistake, the enormity of what he’d requested, of what would happen if the monk carried out such a terrifying task…

“Leonard, wait!” He screamed, rushed towards the entrance – forgetting the Bishop, forgetting his vengeance, they lost all meaning under that eclipse that might free him and his beloved. “Stop!”

And Finney was once again blocking his way, trapping him inside the cathedral. Any thought of mercy vanished from Kirk’s mind as he pounced on the traitor, unheeding of the wounds and bruises he was gathering.

He had to break through, and Ben was no match for him, he’d never been, he would dispose of him soon enough.

“You’re dead,” he told him with a half grin.

Their swords met in a lethal dance, and time ticked by.

As they kept fighting, Kirk saw out of the corner of his eye that a soldier had climbed up to where the bells’ ropes hung, and was about to sound them, about to condemn Spock to certain death… Without a second thought, the Captain took a knife and threw it at the man, who fell wrapped around the wires. The bells stayed silent.

Jim turned back to his rival, pushed him to the ground, raised his sword…

And then the sound of peals filled the air, cutting through him with cruel finality as the bells pronounced his fate.

“Stop!” Kirk howled, but it was too late, the bells could be heard hallway across the land, and certainly the monk would… he would…

Death washed over the Captain’s face. He felt… strangely numb. Resigned. After all, he had known that this was where they were heading from the first night that the curse had set. He had known Spock would not survive the torture of their bond for long.

“Leonard... make it quick.”

* * *

Hidden behind a wall, Leonard held the blinded black hawk to himself, soothing him with gentle caresses. He peered from the tiny window into the sky, waiting for a sign, for anything that would tell him his friend was saved and victorious. The plan had been executed to perfection, but so much could go wrong…

And when the bells began to toll, the monk rose a pleading gaze to the heavens and prayed that he had heard wrong. Prayed they would mean anything but what they meant, prayed that he did not have to comply with Jim’s last request.

Prayed that there was a way he could save Spock.

But if Jim had died, then Spock would awaken to a broken bond – and that, in the weakened state he found himself in, that would surely kill him.

_Quick and painless_ , Kirk had asked, and now Leonard understood why.

The silver dagger he had helped choose as a wedding present reflected the pale rays of the disappearing sun, and as he touched it to the bird’s feathers he felt his hands shake, and had to close his eyes.

“God, forgive me.”

The eclipse was nearly complete.

* * *

Pavel returned into the cathedral to find the Captain screaming in blind rage. He was fighting Finney, but with none of his usual grace – no, he was an image of the wolf, the wolf when it jumped to Spock’s defence…

Kirk had lost his sword, was lying to the ground, looking up at Finney that was about to sink his weapon into his flesh…

The Mouse slid the Captain’s sword to the ground, close to where they were battling, just as Kirk got back to his feet, circled around in search of a weak spot, anything that would give him the advantage over an armed man.

They rolled to the ground, kicking and punching each other, and Finney was faster to catch his own sword, faster to walk to Kirk, preparing the blow that would end his life; the Captain did not move until the last moment, waiting for him to come, waiting for him to put all his strength into that one, final hit.

Then he launched himself against his feet, upsetting his balance, stealing the sword from him so that when he eventually tripped and fell, Finney pierced himself on his own weapon.

He curled around it and died.

Jim deigned him of one last glance before he gathered himself up, retrieving his father’s sword with a look of wonder on his face. His eyes met Pavel’s for an instant, and they nodded at each other in understanding.

Kirk turned to the Bishop.

He disposed of the guard that attempted to stop him by removing his spear and throwing him behind a candle holder. He felt the Bishop’s frozen eyes follow his every move.

Still he advanced.

The tip of his sword brushed the white and golden robe that marked the man as belonging to God. A smirk opened in the lined face like a tear through fabric, and he spoke: “But kill me, Kirk... and the curse will go on forever,” he said knowingly. “You must think of Spock.”

Jim let out a trembling breath. “Spock... is dead,” he told him firmly, and watched the hated face contort in grief – and how _dare_ the Bishop feel pain when it was all his doing… “Damn you. Damn you to hell.”

He lifted the sword above his head, preparing to strike… It would finally end, once and forever.

“Jim?”

* * *

The soft, otherworldly voice swept the cathedral like a benevolent wind.

Kirk stilled.

Heart pounding in his ears, breath cut short, he turned around slowly, turned to stare at the Vulcan that stood mere feet from him. He felt warmth spill into his consciousness as their minds met across the bond that had come back to life, bridging the distance between them with love and disbelief.

_T’hy’la_.

Jim’s lips shook as he mouthed his beloved’s name.

The Bishop closed his eyes forcefully.

In a sudden movement, Kirk caught him by his neck, pressed the tip of his sword into his chest, pushing him down to his knees. “Look!” he demanded, loud enough that his voice bounced from the walls, repeating in a furious echo. “Look at him!”

Fear for his life seemed to have the better of him, and the Bishop lowered his crossed arms slowly, raising a fearful gaze over the Vulcan. After a moment, the Captain jumped in front of him. “Look at me,” he ordered. He could hear Spock’s delicate footsteps as he approached, and, oh, they were so close…

He met the Bishop’s baleful glare.

In the silence, all that could be heard was leather creaking and metal wincing as Kirk began to walk backwards, never taking his eyes off the clergyman. “Now, look at us,” he said.

Again, the Bishop let his gaze fall to the ground.

“Look at us!” Kirk’s shout had him startle, and finally, finally, his eyes fell on the cursed lovers, reunited at last.

Amid the crowd, Leonard went to join Pavel in his awe-struck watch. “It’s over,” he whispered, and there were tears in his voice. “It’s broken.”

Jim heard him, and he exhaled, turning towards Spock with an elated smile. He fell to his knees, head titled up as he waited for the Vulcan to take the ending steps that would bring them together.

Spock walked slowly, afraid even then that it was merely a dream, an illusion, that he was imagining his t’hy’la glowing face in front of him and his loving presence in his mind; he reached out a hand long before he could touch him, and as the wounds in his conscious healed, a broken sob was torn from him.

_Ashayam._

Kirk grasped his hand tightly and Spock curled both of his around the human’s fingers, feeling his warmth, feeling the truth of his existence in the solid hold they shared. And he let himself meet his eyes, those hazel eyes that were filling the silence with words of wonder and welcome, those eyes that hung upon him like he was the most cherished thing in the world.

_I can’t believe you’re here, I can’t believe you’re alive…_

Relinquishing his hold on his dearest Captain, the Vulcan opened his palm to show the leather strings that had bound his wrists for so long, and raised an icy glare upon the Bishop, who was still looking at him, still wanting him, tainting his mindscape with his disgusting greed.

He brushed by Jim, walked to the man who had desired him and punished him for it, wondering if he should kill him. But if his t’hy’la had spared him, he would respect his decision…

And so he merely let the strings fall to his feet with a sharp twist of his hands, met his pale eyes that did not miss any of his movements, held them with contempt and cold, dangerous fury. Then he turned his back to him – he was free, free, free.

Jim awaited him still, and Spock desired nothing more than to collapse into his arms and melt in his embrace. And now he could.

Kirk felt the Vulcan return and closed his eyes, trying to come to terms with the reality that it was over. His limbs ached with fatigue, but his mind was ablaze: the link that tied him to his husband was nearly overflowing with joy and sentiment, demanding all of his attention.

Spock’s cadenced steps were music to his ears.

The Bishop watched with venom in his gaze and loathing on his face as the Captain prepared to welcome the faery-like creature in his arms. That Vulcan should have been _his_ , and to have another touch him, own him… He would not allow it. They thought themselves unfettered because the curse had been dissolved, but they were wrong.

He would never surrender his claim on Spock.

Wrapping both hands around his staff, he pointed its sharp, metallic end at Kirk’s back. “No man shall!” he spat.

Leonard saw, and he screamed: “Jim!”

Both the Captain and the Vulcan whirled around at that, and Jim was quick to take hold of his sword. In one, smooth motion he had pierced the Bishop’s chest, sending him to crash against the altar. Blood spilled from his mouth.

He died with his eyes fixed on Spock and his name on his lips.

For a moment no one dared move or even breathe. Kirk was kneeling under the steps that led to the table, fingers twined as if in prayer, and the Vulcan was panting a little, clutching at the soft fabric of his robes. Around them the people looked at one another in shock and confusion.

Spock went to wrap both arms around Jim’s shoulders, and the Captain pressed his face into his side – against his heart – before allowing the Vulcan to pull him up. Holding each other close they walked away.

Sunlight bathed the cathedral in gold: the eclipse was over, it was day again and as night returned they would still be together. The wolf and the hawk would no longer exist, banished to the realm of memories and nightmares.

Leonard and Pavel hugged tightly, both smiling wildly at this unbelievable turn of events, and they, too, made to leave the cathedral they would not visit again.

All was well.

Spock held Jim’s hand into both of his, and smiled unabashedly at him when his t’hy’la stopped in the middle of the nave, right under the patch of yellow light streaming in from the broken window.

Softly, tentatively, Kirk reached out to cup his husband’s cheeks between his palms. “Oh, my God!” he breathed, voice breaking as the Vulcan clutched desperately at his hips, then his chest, his neck, his face. “Spock...”

With a trembling touch, Spock traced the shape of the human’s lips, and Jim kissed his fingers before he leaned in to kiss his mouth, too, fleetingly, delicately, and his forehead.

“You’ve cut your hair,” he murmured, eyes shining in adoration. He pulled at the short silken strands, and the Vulcan laughed – a beautiful chiming sound that seemed to wrap around him like summer breeze.

They kissed again.                  

“I cherish you...” Spock whispered against his t’hy’la’s lips, encircling his neck with his arms to pull him closer. “I love you.”

Jim cradled him to himself like he’d been made out of porcelain, with a care that stole his breath and his words and his heart. “Spock.”

The Vulcan delighted in saying the human’s name, in calling him, watching the tender smile that lit up his face when he did. “ _Jim_.”         

They embraced, so tightly they embraced, and it seemed to last a century, the warmth and the love and the mind-blowing relief as the truth of the years they were to share bound them together again.

After certainly too short a time, Jim slipped away, just a little, keeping an arm wound securely around the Vulcan’s back, and turned to the retreating figures of Leonard and Pavel.

“You two!” he cried, and the monk and the Mouse stopped in their tracks. Then gentler: “Come here.”

Leonard’s eyes shone with pride and happiness as he clasped a hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “May God’s blessings be with you both, from this day forward,” he said, smiling widely at the two he had married in secret no more than twenty-four months before. He had longed to see them safe and content…

“I bless the day he brought you back to us, father,” Jim told him with a grin. He reached out for the boy, pulling him close into a heartfelt embrace. “And you. And you...”

He seemed to be out of words, but as Pavel moved away Spock touched his fingers lightly upon his wrist. “You are the truest friend we could ever have,” he murmured, gratitude making his voice rich. “Thank you.”

Both Leonard and Chekov nodded, then the monk took the boy by his hand, and they walked towards the open doors; the crowd parted to let them pass.

“I fully intend to meet you at the pearly gates, little thief. Don’t you dare disappoint me!” Bones was half-threatening, half-inviting.

“I’ll meet you there, father,” came the Mouse’s cheerful answer as he divested himself of the white robe he had put on. “Even if I have to pick the lock.”

In parting, they were joined by Hikaru, Nyota and Scotty; no doubt they would be waiting for their Captain and his spouse by the square.

But the two lingered on for a moment more.

Bending down to collect his strength, Jim caught the Vulcan just above his knees, lifting him up. “Spock!” he called again, joyfully, twirling around under the sunlight that drew a halo behind their figures. _My Spock_.

_Yes, t’hy’la_. Spock’s eyes shone. He spread his arms behind himself like a bird about to take flight, and then wound them around his bondmate’s neck, holding on to him. “I love you, I love you!” he declared into the morning sun, dizzied by their spinning and elation and pure, unbridled mirth.

Slowly, Jim let him slide back to the ground. Their eyes met, melted together.

And then they kissed.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you for reading all the way here and giving this story a chance! I hope I did the movie justice, it's such a work of art and perfect for Jim and Spock... At least I think it is.  
> Let me know what you thought! Fantasy is my favourite genre, so of course I had to try and fit in my favourite powercouple, right?
> 
> Now that I got this out of my system, I'll get back to 100 Words Part 3: Marriage! In which Starfleet thinks Jim and Spock are faking a relationship so Spock can refuse a captaincy to a new ship.
> 
> LLAP and thank you for your support!


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